


The Laying on of Hands

by Universal_Acid



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Child Neglect, Disturbing Themes, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:00:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Universal_Acid/pseuds/Universal_Acid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fili is a yellow-haired dwarf child who in appearance and disposition reminds his family of their tragically dead kin. They find it hard to touch the child. They find it painful to show him affection, especially through physical contact. </p><p>And so, Fili grows up to believe that he, as an ugly child, is unworthy of kindness, unworthy of compassion, and above all, unworthy of love.</p><p> </p><p>Written for The Hobbit Kink Meme - the link to the prompt and associated comments are in the notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yellow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hobbit Kink Meme. The original prompt is a little long, but it's basically as follows:
> 
> Fili looks a lot like Frerin, as well as a lot like his father. Neither Thorin nor Dís ever really got over the loss of their brother. He was like the glue that kept them all together.
> 
> It’s not that they don’t love Fili, because they do, but it's hard to show him affection without being reminded of Frerin. Thorin makes it clear at an early age that he didn't want Fili's touch. So bb!Fili came to the conclusion that displays of affection are something that gets handed out from the higher-standing dwarf and only when you’re good.
> 
> But the older he gets, it happens more and more often than Dís looks at him with a sad and mourning expression and her touches get rarer and rarer. And when Kili comes along, Fili is ecstatic, because he’s the older brother, so he can touch and hug. But Kili eventually comes into an age where Fili’s constant affection seems stifling and one day he just snaps.
> 
> Fili doesn't understand what's happening. He's heartbroken. He runs away. Through sheer dumb luck, he lands in the Shire. Younger!Bilbo basically adopts him and Fili is overwhelmed with all the casual affection around him, and Fili is so nice and polite and obviously needs someone to really care for him. And the whole Shire basically adopts him as their very own dwarf.
> 
>  
> 
> The prompt and associated comments can be found [here.](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/7346.html?thread=16839346#t16839346)
> 
>  
> 
> **Trigger Warnings and Disclaimer:** Please note that this story contains graphic depictions of childhood bullying, psychological abuse of children, and child neglect. I do not condone the use of such cruelty and understand that this is a work of fiction. All rights and privileges belong to their licensed, respective owners. This is written solely for personal reasons and not for profit.

For as long as he could remember, Fili was the child who no one wanted to touch. It wasn’t that he was a particularly bad child, or a whiny child, or a disobedient child. Instead, it was that he was ugly. He always had been. He always would be. And that was just how it was. 

Fili was lucky enough to have been born whole in every single way but one: his ugly, yellow hair. Dwarf boys did not have yellow hair. That was a girl thing when it was a dwarf thing at all. The rare boys who were so unlucky as to have yellow hair were teased ruthlessly. They were pelted with tomatoes or dunked in vats of oil to dye the hair red or black. Sometimes, the teasing got so bad that a group of bigger, older dwarflings would actually hold a child down and while he screamed, they would cut off his yellow locks and make the little boy bleed. 

“Red looks better, piss-head,” one of the bullies would say. “Almost like you’re a real dwarf. Not some ugly man-child.” 

When Fili had seen that incident, he’d been a lad of twenty-six, and by then, he’d gotten good at hiding. From afar, he’d seen the big boys harass the toy-maker’s son for the better part of two months. But since the littler dwarfling had yellow hair, and Fili had yellow hair, he’d known better than to intervene lest he suffer the same painful fate. And so, for weeks, the big dwarflings had taken to harassing the silent, blushing child to see how far they could push him. 

It had taken cutting his hair to make him scream. Then they’d left him alone. But only for a little while. 

Fili had always been luckier than the peasant boy. The two of them looked just the same, just as ugly, just as yellow. But Fili was a prince, and not a lowly peasant. Fili’s uncle, Thorin Oakenshield, was their peoples’ king. That meant that he was spared the mockery of the older dwarflings, if only for their fear of his Uncle Thorin. But that didn’t mean that they were nice to him. No, the big dwarflings made it a point to ignore the ugly little prince at every turn. They were more afraid of crossing King Thorin than they were repulsed by Fili’s appearance. And so, Fili had never been subjected to a haircut at their hands. 

But still, he knew what that felt like. And he knew how much pain they had caused the little peasant boy. 

Only once had Fili ever had his hair cut. It didn’t feel good. In fact, it hurt. It hurt a lot. Haircuts felt like the times when Mama cut his fingernails in a hurry and nipped the quick because even she knew he was too ugly to touch for very long. 

It made him so sad, being too ugly for Mama. He wanted her to love him, so he’d tried once, at the age of seventeen, to make himself look handsome. 

Maybe, just maybe, a haircut would get rid of the ugly yellow hair and it would never grow back. Then Fili would be handsome enough for Mama to hold him close. And so, one day, when Mama was at the market, Fili had stolen a pair of scissors from her desk and had hidden in the bathtub, and there, he’d tried to cut off all of his offending hair. 

It only took one cut before he had realized how painful that was. He had howled and dropped the scissors into the tub and clutched his hair where he’d cut himself. Uncle Thorin had barged into the bathroom, sword drawn. But then, when he’d seen only Fili, a lock of hair cut off and bleeding a little from the wound, he’d dropped his weapon and had yanked Fili out of the tub and settled him down on the tiles. 

“Fili!” Uncle Thorin had knelt down in front of him and gingerly touched the cut-off ends of hair. Then he’d glared at him with his sternest grown-up face. “What were you thinking, child? Don’t hurt yourself like that!” 

Fili had rubbed his nose and said through his tears, “I’m sorry, Uncle.” 

Uncle Thorin had shaken his head. Then he’d stood and went to a cabinet, pulled out a medicine kit, and cleaned the blood from the cut tips of Fili’s shortened lock. 

“You know you can only cut this hair,” Uncle Thorin had said with a brush of his fingers to his own dark beard. “The hair on top is living. If you cut it, it will hurt.” 

Fili had nodded sullenly, understanding. Then he’d wanted a hug. The wound still hurt, and he was still so ugly, but hugs helped. They helped a lot. So Fili had collapsed against Uncle Thorin’s chest. There, he’d buried his face in Uncle’s coat, crying softly. 

But Uncle Thorin didn’t like to touch him, either. Fili was too ugly. 

And so, after a painfully brief pat on the back, Uncle Thorin had gently grabbed Fili by the shoulders and pushed him away. He’d shaken his head. His black curls had waved at Fili. 

“I don’t ever want you hurting yourself, lad,” Uncle Thorin had said. “Do you understand?” 

“Okay,” Fili had sniffled. 

“Good.” 

Then Uncle Thorin had let him go. 

“I’m sorry,” Fili had repeated as his uncle had stood again. 

Uncle Thorin frowned down at him. “Don’t be sorry,” he’d said. “Just don’t do it again.” 

Then his uncle had reached for the scissors and left Fili alone, staring at the floor in shame. 

That had been a several years ago now. Fili didn’t remember if Uncle Thorin had ever touched him after that point. He probably hadn’t, otherwise Fili would have remembered it. 

And as Uncle Thorin had never sought to touch Fili, so too had Fili refrained from seeking out his uncle’s touch. He had wanted to, at times. He had seen the other little dwarflings crawling all over their papas and uncles and old cousins. It looked like so much fun. The children would laugh and pull at their papas’ beards and the papas would always pick their sons and daughters up and toss them in the air. 

But Fili didn’t have a papa anymore. Fili didn’t even remember Papa. 

All he had was Uncle Thorin. And Uncle Thorin didn’t want to touch his ugly nephew. And that was just how it was. 

Maybe it was that Fili’s yellow color would rub off onto Thorin, like tarnish upon the silverware. Maybe it was that Uncle Thorin, as a king, couldn’t be seen to be touching such ugly children, even if his own nephew was one of them. Or maybe it was that Uncle Thorin just simply loved his younger nephew better. That one – Kili – he wasn’t ugly. He was perfect. Even Fili knew that. 

Kili had been a happy baby with big brown eyes and a mop of straight, shiny black hair. As an infant, as a toddler, and as a rambunctious child, Kili was nothing but smiles and laughter. Mama and Uncle Thorin loved him so very much. 

One of Fili’s first memories from early in his second decade was of Mama and Uncle and their love for his brother, Kili. 

Uncle Thorin had come home after a hard day of work. He’d slumped off his shoulder bag and hung his fur coat on the peg behind the kitchen door. Then he had settled heavily into the rocking chair beside the fire, where Mama was making stew. 

That night, Fili had hidden in the pantry. It was where he liked to hide when Mama was cooking. He always did that because maybe, just maybe, she would have forgotten an ingredient and returned to the cupboard, would have noticed her ugly son on the floor with his knees cradled to his chest, and would have smiled down to him, said something kind, and given him a pat on the shoulder. That was all the touch he ever got, and sometimes if he surprised her, she’d give him that treasured gift. 

But that night, she hadn’t forgotten anything. She’d used the fresh herbs from the garden instead of the dried ones in the pantry. And so, Fili had waited in the pantry, watching her, wanting her love. 

It had never come. 

When Thorin had gotten home, she’d ladled out a serving for her brother and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed briefly as they exchanged the bowl. 

“Try this,” Mama had said. “I used dill this time.” 

Thorin had given the stew a slow sip. Then he’d let out a low, satisfied sigh and returned his sister’s smile. Then he touched her elbow and gave her a nod. “Very good,” he’d said. “Though you might see if the boys like it.” 

“Ah,” Mama had laughed softly. “Such young palates, those two. I could feed them cheese and noodles all day and they’d be happy, but sooner or later, they’d best get used to their green food. It’s good for them.” 

“Speaking of” – Thorin had twisted in the rocking chair and searched the kitchen with his eyes – “Where are the lads?” 

“Kili’s in the nursery, playing with toys,” Mama had said. She’d leaned against the wall beside her brother and with her fingers she’d combed the soot from his long, dark hair. “I made the boys some new wooden daggers. Kili stole Fili’s, but Fili didn’t seem all that interested in it, anyways. He went off on his own with his blanket. He’s probably curled up in some corner, drawing pictures now.” 

“He’s a gentle child, that one,” Thorin had muttered. 

Mama had gone quiet. Her shoulders had tensed. Then she’d rubbed a hand over her black braids. “Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I know.” 

“It’s such a shame,” Thorin had murmured, “what happens to gentle dwarves.” 

“He’ll be fine if we raise him right,” Mama had said. “Teach him combat, teach him not to… get himself into harm’s way.” She gave a soft sniff and pressed her hand to her mouth. 

“Oh, Dis…” Thorin had set his bowl aside and stood. Then he’d wrapped his sister in his arms and held her as she had softly cried against his shoulder. “I know, I know it’s hard. He’s so very much like…” 

“Don’t say it,” Mama had said. She’d pulled away then and dried her tears. “It’s too painful.” 

“All right,” Thorin had nodded. Then he’d touched his forehead to Mama’s and whispered, “The hurt will heal in time, sister. You’ll see.” 

Just then, from a doorway next to the pantry, at an angle out of Fili’s sight, there was a soft, wordless sound that could only be Kili’s happy toddler babble. 

At that, Mama had immediately burst into a broad smile. Thorin had turned. He had stopped frowning and now the hint of a grin had graced the corners of his mouth. 

“Kili!” Mama had said brightly. She’d dropped into a crouch. “Come here, son!” 

Kili had toddled into view, chewing on one of the wooden daggers – the red-painted dagger, Fili’s dagger – that Mama had made for them. When he’d reached Mama, she’d beamed at him and had pulled the dagger from his hands. Then she’d pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, wetted the corner with her mouth, and rubbed Kili’s little nose with it, saying “You’ve got paint chips all over you, little one!” 

When she’d finished, she’d picked Kili up and propped his little body up on her hip. Kili had tugged on her sideburns and then he’d yanked one of her braids into his mouth to chew on. Then he’d given a burbling laugh as Uncle Thorin had leaned in to plant a noisy kiss on that dark, beautiful and stick-straight mop of hair. 

“You’re loved, Kili,” Mama had murmured. She’d nuzzled his cheek and he’d giggled at the tickle of her beard. Then she’d looked up at Uncle Thorin. “Can you take him so I can finish? And see if you can find Fili?” 

Fili had perked up at the mention of his name. He loved hide and seek. It was the only game he was good at. Going unnoticed came naturally to Fili. 

“All right,” Thorin had said. Then he’d hooked his hands under Kili’s arms and hoisted him up through the air, giving a loud and playful bellow as he’d planted his laughing nephew up on his shoulders. “Aww, Mister Kili! Let’s go find that big brother of yours!” 

Fili had held his breath. All they’d needed to do was open the pantry door and then there he’d be, waiting for them. But they didn’t open the door. Instead, they went past the pantry and into the hallway. Then they’d disappeared, their noisy laughter fading with their footsteps. 

Left alone in the pantry, Fili had wrapped his arms tightly around his chest. He’d been so sad that they hadn’t found him. He’d rocked to and fro to soothe himself as he’d waited for them to come back and realize their mistake. But they didn’t come back. At least, he didn't remember if they had. 

Maybe they’d just left him there, unwanted and forgotten. 

As he’d waited, he’d watched Mama at the fire. She’d been his last chance that day. He’d hoped so much for her to look over, just look over. Because then, she’d notice that the door was ajar, and then she’d open it, and then she’d find her missing child and give him a pat on the shoulder. 

Eventually, she had looked over. Fili had gasped silently, eagerly, as she’d come to the door. 

But she hadn’t looked down. She’d only frowned and jiggled the doorknob and muttered to herself, “Gotta get those tumblers fixed.” 

And then, she’d closed the door, leaving Fili alone in the dark.


	2. Birdie

Fili staggered into the entry hall and slammed the door behind him. He fell against the door, the back of his head hitting with a hard thud on the wood. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, focusing on the way his tired body moved with every breath. The slow and steady expansion and contraction of his ribcage. The way his insides seemed to shift around as his lungs filled, pushing everything soft and vulnerable inside him down towards his pelvis. There was also the low, pulsating pain in the one place where Kili’s practice sword had slipped past his defenses. 

He had never expected to excel in combat training as he had. No one had expected that, in fact. Fili remembered how Mother had looked at him sadly whenever he’d set aside his play swords for pencils. He must have done it one too many times. He’d been only twenty-seven, nearly a decade younger than most dwarfling lads when they took up formal combat training. But sometime soon after Mother’s last disapproving look, Uncle Thorin had taken away Fili’s drawing papers and placed a short sword in his small hand. 

“Fili,” he’d chastised, “You are a prince. One day, you will be an heir.” 

As he'd spoken, Thorin had clutched the unfinished drawing tightly, unaware of how he was irreparably creasing the paper. It hadn't been a good drawing yet, just a half-finished picture of a birdie, but it might have been nice if Fili had gotten the chance to color in the blue wings and the red-capped head. But with his rough and careless touch, Thorin had ruined the bird. 

“If you are to be a good king," Uncle Thorin had said, "You must be a warrior. Otherwise you will be defenseless against those who would do you harm. The world is not safe for artists and gentle-hearted dwarves, especially those who must be defenders of the helpless. Can you defend the helpless with a pencil?” 

“I don't know," Fili had admitted. "But I don’t like swords.” He’d turned the heavy, ugly sword over in his hands. Then he’d let the tip of it fall to the floor and left it hanging limply from his fingertips. He’d wrapped his other arm around his middle, hugging himself. “I don’t want to hurt anybody. That’s mean.” 

“Sometimes, you must hurt others to keep them from hurting you.” Thorin had knelt in front of him, but had kept his distance. “It is called self-defense. I cannot fight your battles for you, lad, as much as I wish I could. Not when you are grown, and not when you are a king. You must be stronger than you are, or the world will destroy you.” 

“If I learn to fight,” Fili had asked, “Can I have my drawing back?” 

Thorin had sighed. Then he’d stood. He touched his big, grown-up’s hand to the hilt of the short sword, just inches from Fili’s fingers. “Master the blade, and then you can have your artwork.” 

With the hope that came with that promise, Fili had done as he had been told. He’d dragged his little short sword and sullen self to the practice field, where Uncle Thorin’s cousin, Mister Dwalin, had been munching on a cookie, waiting for him. 

Mister Dwalin hadn’t looked thrilled at first by his young, gentle-looking pupil. He’d written the ugly prince off as too sensitive for war. Everyone had. But in the end, he had been happily surprised. When the first light slap of Mister Dwalin’s practice blade had hit Fili in the face, the stinging touch had sparked something deep inside the young prince. 

He’d hit back. He’d hit back hard despite being so very small. 

Fili found it easy after that point to throw all of his energy into getting good with the sword. It had hurt tremendously at first, being hit with Mister Dwalin’s practice weapons, but Fili had quickly learned to predict the blows and sidestep them before they could get him. Then he hit back fiercely whenever he failed to defend himself. Over time, he got good. He got very good. And within a few short years, Fili had become the little master of the blade that Uncle Thorin had wanted him to be. 

One day, his diligence was finally rewarded. When Fili had been thirty-four, he’d come home at dusk after a long day of training on the practice field. Nothing had really seemed different about that day, not even the whooping he’d given his pretty dark-haired brother now that Kili was old enough to start training. But things were different, apparently. 

He’d come into the sitting room after leaving his coat and his boots and his training gear in the entry hall. Then he’d sat down heavily on the floor by the fire in the hearth. Relaxing as the warm air caressed his bruises. Gentle hands upon his neglected skin. 

He’d barely heard the soft click of the tumblers, but his hearing was good, and he’d looked up at the sound of the opening door. Thorin had entered the sitting room with a small wooden box in his hands. He hadn’t been frowning for the first time in as long as Fili could remember. 

“I’ve been watching you train with Dwalin,” Thorin had said. He’d sat down on the floor beside his nephew and had set the box down on the rug between them. Then he'd pushed it towards Fili. “You’ve gotten quite good, far better than I had hoped.” He’d smiled then. “It’s high time that these were returned to you.” 

Silently, Fili had looked down at the box. It had been made of a wood so dark it was nearly black. He didn’t have a strong memory, but Fili remembered clearly the ornate carving on the lid. It was a landscape scene of the Lonely Mountain, inlaid with whitewood for snow and a faintly shining grey stone to mark the slopes. The black wooden sky was speckled with little flecks of silver that looked like stars. He’d run his hands over the surface, his calloused but still-sensitive fingers finding each tiny bump and groove and depression in the wood. As if he was reading with a touch. 

He’d opened the lid. Inside was a stack of paper. On top, the years-old and half-finished drawing of the birdie. His colored pencils. 

Thorin had remembered, even after all this time. 

He’d looked up at his uncle, unable to form words. Thorin’s smile had grown wider. 

“I’m proud of you, Fili.” Then Thorin had stood. He’d reached out then for Fili and with the tiniest touch, he’d grazed his fingertips on the ends of Fili’s yellow braids. As if to say, _you have redeemed yourself._ And with that, Thorin had left Fili alone with his drawing pencils. 

Fili had stared at the bird in quiet shock. He’d gingerly picked up the paper and smoothed the old wrinkles from the surface. The body was half-colored in a warm brown. The beak, he’d made black. But that was all the color there was. He didn’t remember anymore what color the wings should be, or whether the blank space he’d left on the head above the eyes was green, or blue, or red. But definitely not yellow. No creature, not even a fake bird that didn’t exist outside of his imagination, should ever suffer that fate. 

He remembered being so sad that he couldn’t recall the right colors. He’d wanted to cry then, but he hadn’t. The first time he’d cried on the practice field, Mister Dwalin had only hit him harder, and so he’d stopped immediately. He hadn’t cried since. And he hadn’t been able to do so again when he’d seen the sadness that was the half-formed little bird. 

He’d put the drawing back in the box. Then he’d shut the lid. Then with dry eyes and a heavy swallow, he'd placed the box on top of the burning logs within the hearth. He’d watched in silence as the box had eventually caught the flame. Then he’d watched it as its dark beauty was reduced to cinders, its little flecks of silver melting and disappearing into the ashes of a former life. 

Only after the box and the papers and the pencils had been destroyed did Fili finally get to his feet. He’d quietly left the sitting room and made his way down the hall to his bedroom. Once there, he’d slipped into the narrow bed built for one, not bothering to remove his dirty, sweat-stained shirt or his quilted practice trousers. He’d sat alone, cross-legged on the bed. He’d closed his arms in around his chest, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat slowly rock his body back and forth in the silence of his cool and lightless bedroom. 

That had been some years ago. Since then, Fili hadn’t touched a drawing pencil. It had hurt at first, giving up the artwork. But after a while, the sadness that had lingered from when he’d burnt the box had faded to little more than a grey memory along with all the other things he’d given up willingly or had simply gone without. 

Now, Fili was a lad of forty-nine, and for once, instead of looking back into the fog of his memories, he was looking forward. 

He was six months shy of his fiftieth birthday. The day would be marked by a celebration to herald the advancement of a young prince from childhood into adolescence. Mother had started planning the festivities more than a year ago. Now, it was all she could talk about during family meals. 

The event was important in the life of every dwarfling. It was always marked as a personal holiday, and every family, rich or poor, was permitted to take the day off in order to bring their child into the next stage of their youth. But in the case of a crown prince, even an unpopular one like Fili, the celebration was ten times grander than what was typical. 

On the prince’s birthday, every dwarf among Durin’s Folk would be given three days off. There would be a gathering of all their kind in the cavernous throne hall of Ered Luin, where they would all revel in the sight of their prince as he grew past his first five vulnerable decades. The ceremony would conclude with the placement of a crown upon the prince’s head. A herald of his impending reign, his mark as an heir of his people. 

Then there would be a grand feast. There would be fifty delectable courses, each with a different type of meat of the finest cut. Fifty different types of beer would be available on endless draught. Fifty continuous hours would be dedicated to feasting, singing, and revelry the likes of which only happened a few times during the life of a dwarf. There was even a rumor that occasionally, a dwarvish prince lost his chastity at his birthday feast. It was formally forbidden, but whispers had it that every dwarvish prince in the Line of Durin except Thorin, purist that he was, had experienced the very first of sensual pleasures on the night of his fiftieth birthday. 

Fili didn’t think that would happen to him. Though he could fight and he wasn’t malnourished, he was small for his age, narrow-shouldered. Ugly, too. His beard hadn’t grown in much by now, not even for a forty-nine year old. Dwarvish lads and lasses didn’t look twice at him, not even knowing he was a prince. 

He was still too ugly to think about touching. Especially in a way like that. 

The only touch he ever really got from others was the touch given at the end of a weapon. But that touch hurt. The aching spot on his hip, where Kili had struck him hard enough to rupture the skin beneath his layers, reminded him that only the pretty and well-loved dwarves ever got touched beyond getting hit. 

But at least the physical pain gave him something to think about. He could press his fingers into the aching spots and strangely feel some relief, but from what, he didn’t know. It wasn’t like he was knocked around just for being ugly. His family wasn’t that cruel. In fact, none of them touched him at all. Not anymore. Not Fili. 

Mother had stopped with her pats to his shoulder many years ago. That touch had always been rare, but it had stopped entirely when she’d started spending less time at home after both her lads were in combat training. They’d had enough money by then to hire a few servants to take care of the household duties. That had left Mother in a position to do things she’d liked better than Mothering. 

She’d liked architecture best. She’d done it for years before her children had been born, and when Fili and Kili had finally grown past a point of needing her constant attention, she’d been able to resume her former life on the building sites. 

Nothing had made her happier. 

But as much as she’d loved her work, she’d started coming home exhausted after the very long days. She didn’t cook dinner anymore, not like she once had. She had the servants do that task. And though the food was delicious, the servants took away all chance that Fili had of surprising his mother from the pantry. 

The last time he’d tried that move, he’d startled the grumpy head cook, Ygris. She had bellowed in terror and had leapt back in shock. She’d lost her footing and had gone crashing to the floor, and her armful of foodstuffs went flying as she had landed on her rear. Fili had gasped, so sorry for having scared her, but before he could say so, she’d hauled her big self to her feet, yelled at Fili furiously, and had chased him out of the kitchen with a swat of the broom. 

So now, years later, Fili was without any touch at all. 

At some point he’d discovered that he could touch himself when he needed to. It wasn’t the same, and it never felt quite as good to touch himself as those brief and rare touches from Mother had once felt, but at least it was better than nothing. He’d gotten good at it over time, familiar with his own body because of his self-touch. That helped him know how to use his body well, so it couldn’t be all bad. 

He now focused on the feeling of the muscles in his shoulders. He realized from their tension that he’d made himself sad again. He pressed a palm into the muscle at the nape of his neck and massaged deeply, imagining it was the touch of another dwarf. Someone, anyone. He didn’t really care. He just wanted to feel some hands that were not his own upon his skin. 

Without really thinking about it, he closed his eyes, imagining what that would feel like. A touch at his birthday party, a gift from a pretty dark-haired dwarfling who was around his age. Big eyes, a wide smile, a warm hand that now rested on the nape of his neck. 

He leaned into the touch of his imaginary friend. His friend pressed a rough, calloused palm to Fili’s neck and traced a thumb over the ugly yellow stubble on Fili’s jaw, not caring what the color was. Fili smiled and pressed a kiss to his friend’s palm. He reveled in the feeling of his lips upon someone else’s skin. He knew full well that it was his own hand that he was kissing, but it felt good, so good to imagine that another dwarf loved him enough to let him give a touch like this. 

He left his hand lingering on his own cheek for a long time before he finally opened his eyes. When he did, he looked around at the entry hall, suddenly glad that he was still alone. 

No one else needed to see him touching himself. It was inappropriate, dirty. No one else thought he was good enough to touch. Why then should he touch his own body? Didn’t he know how ugly he was? 

Fili sighed heavily as his sadness came back to him. Any relief from the brief moment of imagined love now was fading away into the ash-colored background of his thoughts. As he took off his boots and slid out of his gambeson and hung his scabbard on a peg, he focused on the ache as it returned to his body, reminded him that pain was the only sensation that he had ever really earned.


	3. Pencils and Paper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains graphic descriptions of childhood violence.

On the morning of Fili’s birthday, Kili finally got up fifteen minutes earlier than usual, unable to stay in bed any longer. He’d woken up two hours too early in anticipation of the next few days. He always woke up early on holidays. But unlike midwinter’s feast or the spring festival or the Blue Mountain summer festival, he wasn’t sure how to feel about today. 

Today was Fili’s day. Today, Fili would claim his birthright as Thorin Oakenshield’s Heir. 

In some ways, Kili was glad that Fili was taking the title. After all, if Fili was the heir, that meant that Kili didn’t have to do it. He’d never been worried about becoming the heir, knowing who Fili really was underneath that quiet, dumb little mask he wore on his liar’s face. Fili was ruthless. Kili didn’t like him. He didn’t like him one little bit. Nobody really liked Fili, it seemed. Uncle Thorin was always so hard on him, as if he, too, saw the evil that lurked in his first sister-son and was determined to stamp it out. Maybe Uncle Thorin hated Fili as much as Kili did. 

“That’s absolutely not true,” Uncle Thorin had said to Kili when he’d asked about it. “We love Fili as much as we love you.” 

“Why?” 

“Because he is a part of this family!” Thorin had said. He’d sounded angry that Kili could think otherwise. “I love you both as sons. You are everything to me. You know that, Kili.” 

“If you love him” – Kili had narrowed his eyes suspiciously – “Then why’d you take his pictures?” 

“How do you know that?” 

Kili remembered having blushed. In truth, he’d figured it out when he’d been searching for sweeties in Uncle Thorin’s desk drawer and had seen the half-finished drawings. The sketches. Uncle Thorin didn’t draw. He was too old for that. 

“I… talked with Fili about it.” Kili had lied. 

Thorin had frowned and had put on that mean Uncle glare. “Can Fili confirm that?” 

“Um… well…” Kili had talked himself into a trap. Then he’d thought his way out of it. “I dunno. No. He just said you were being mean and that you stole his pencils after what happened.” 

Uncle’s expression had faltered. He’d dropped his eyes to his hands. “He said that? That I was being mean?” 

“Yes, he did.” Kili had said, nodding. “But he’s not gonna tell you that if you ask him. I wouldn’t if I were Fili. I’d just say, ‘No, Uncle Thorin. Kili was being bad. He saw the artwork in your study and said I’d told you. I didn’t say anything, I swear by Durin’s Beard.’” 

Uncle Thorin’s frown had returned with a vengeance. He’d dropped his voice into a low growl and said, “You know better than to be a liar, Kili. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, blaming your brother for your misdeeds! No one but I knew where in the house that I’d taken the drawings!” Then he’d pointed to the wall of his study. “Go stand with your nose on that stone! NOW!” 

It had felt like Uncle Thorin had spanked him. But despite the sting of Thorin’s words, Kili had obeyed his uncle. He’d bowed his head, ashamed that he’d been caught in the lie, and he’d gone and dutifully stuck his nose on the stone wall for what must have been hours and hours. In the meantime, Thorin had forgotten about him as he’d gotten lost in his paperwork. 

While he’d stood there, Kili had remembered precisely why he was glad to be the second brother. The second brother didn’t get his toys taken away. The second brother didn’t have to spend his days with mean old Uncle Thorin once he’d passed his fiftieth birthday. 

Being a second prince was, for the most part, so much better than being the heir to the throne. 

There was only one way that it was better to be the older brother. That way was in training for war. The older brother got to start combat training first. The memory of how that had actually come about was a bitter one, even after all these years. It was the first time that Kili had ever realized just how dangerous his older brother really was. 

Fili had never been very much fun to play with. All he’d ever really done when they were little was draw stupid pictures with his colored pencils. They weren’t bad pictures, Kili knew in hindsight. They’d always been better drawings than what Kili could ever do. But they were weird. They’d always had too much color. Little, fancy animals in vibrant shades of blues and greens and reds. So many different colors. Even the blacks and browns and beiges – the ugly colors, the boring colors – were used freely. Somehow, Fili thought that they, too, were beautiful, and had a place among the brighter, prettier shades. The only color that Fili had never used was yellow. Not even when drawing the sun. That was orange. 

“You’re doing it wrong,” Kili had told his brother once. “The sunshine’s yellow.” 

“Yellow’s ugly.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“Yes, it is.” 

“Can I have your yellow pencil?” 

“No.” 

“Why not? You don’t even use it.” 

“Because it’s mine.” 

Kili had scowled at his brother. Fili was so selfish sometimes. 

He didn’t remember just what had compelled him to do what he’d done next. Vengeance, perhaps. But he hadn’t known that word at the time. He’d angrily stripped off his socks. He’d yanked his foot towards his face and had given it a whiff. Nice and stinky, even back then. He’d given a satisfied grin and had hopped to his feet. Then he’d marched over to his brother and had smacked his foot into Fili’s face. 

Fili had yelped when Kili had kicked him. When he’d fallen back, Kili had jumped on him. Then he’d smothered Fili’s face with his horrible, stinking feet. Fili had burst into tears, and Kili had kicked him all the harder. Only when he’d finally let off and saw that Fili had curled up into a ball, sobbing with his head buried in his arms, had Kili realized just how badly Fili had taken that. 

“Oh, Fili! I’m sorry!” Kili had crouched down beside his brother. Then he’d set a hand on Fili’s shoulder. 

At the touch, Fili had snapped. He’d screamed out in fury. Then he’d grabbed one of his pencils. Before Kili could jerk his hand back, Fili had stabbed the pencil – the long and sharp and unused yellow one – through the back of Kili’s hand. 

Kili had shrieked. The pencil was embedded clean through. Straight between the bones. 

He’d fallen back and had gripped his bloodied hand and had writhed on the floor as the agony set in. 

“What is going on in here!?” 

Kili had cried all the harder once he’d heard Mother’s voice. He’d curled up to protect his hand from his evil older brother. When she’d come to him, he’d buried his face in her lap. Hand still shaking. Bleeding everywhere from where Fili had hurt him. 

“Ah, inùdôy!” 

Mother had held him tightly for a moment. Then she’d grabbed the injured hand, assessed it briefly, and then said, “Kili, this is going to hurt.” 

Then she’d jerked the pencil out. 

Kili had wailed even louder. That had hurt more than getting stabbed in the first place. 

He didn’t remember much after that point. But he did remember Mother taking him out of the nursery. Pressing her palms to the injury on either side. Then at some point, her old cousin Oin. Bandages, salves. Several weeks of healing. Eventually, a scar. 

Even to this day, Kili still sometimes felt the ache from where Fili had wounded him. When he’d finally started combat training at the age of twenty-seven, he’d been limited in what weapons he could use. He’d eventually figured out the two-handed sword and the bow, letting his left hand do most of the gripping where his right served to direct the blows. 

He was right-handed. That was fine for the bow, but not as much for the sword. The two-hander was the best he could do, and he’d never really reached his full potential in melee combat. But he hadn’t had much choice in the matter of picking that weapon. That choice had been taken from him. That choice had been stolen by FIli. 

“Stupid Fili,” he muttered. 

Life was so unfair. 

He looked down at the scar in the middle of his calloused palm. Then he closed his hand into a fist, hiding the ancient damage beneath the curl of his fingers. 

The soft sound of knuckles on his bedroom door brought him back to the here and now. He looked up just as his friend Gimli came into the room, arms full of silks and velvets from the wardrobe. 

He gave Gimli a bright smile.

“Big day, huh?” 

Gimli tossed a fancy doublet at Kili. He snatched the thing from the air. Then with a laugh, Kili smacked the younger dwarfling in the face with it when Gimli came closer. 

“Oy!” Gimli wadded up the silk undershirt and snapped it at Kili. 

They laughed and swatted playfully at each other with their makeshift weapons. Then finally, when Gimli had had enough, he held up his hand and caught his breath. 

“Easy, bâhûn!” 

Kili let up and gave Gimli a hearty slap on the back. 

“How ‘bout that feast, huh?” Kili said as he traded his nightshirt for the black silk undershirt. “Fifty whole hours of it! You think there’ll be a fight?” 

“Maybe,” Gimli shrugged. “Probably not, though. I think it’ll be kinda boring.” 

“Boring? How?” 

Gimli gave a snort. “Your dumb brother. It’s his party. He doesn’t even talk to people. Weirdo.” 

“He is weird, isn’t he?” Kili said softly. “Well, he’s the heir. Or he will be soon. Glad I don’t have to do it.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I’m not a meanie like he is.” 

Gimli was quiet at that. Kili knew that Gimli had also suffered under Fili’s weapons in the practice field. Fili was good at combat. In fact, he was undefeated. And Dwalin liked to pair everyone off against Fili just to get a laugh when Fili whumped the younger lads. 

It was awful. Kili hated Fili. 

So did all the other dwarflings. They all knew how hard Fili could hit them when he wanted to. Nobody could put a stop to Fili. 

He’d be a ruthless king one day. Kili had no wish to be his enemy. 

“You kind of have to be nasty to be a ruler,” Kili said. 

“You think so?” 

“Aye. Plus,” he added with a smile, “You don’t get to have fun. Fili’s always sitting in on stupid meetings with Uncle Thorin after sword practice.” 

“That sounds boring.” 

“It does, doesn’t it?” 

Gimli gave him a furious nod. 

Kili slipped into his silk trousers and his new, supple black calf-skin boots. Then he let Gimli help lace him into the velvet doublet. 

As his pageboy helped dress him, Kili traced a finger over the ornate silver embroidery on the thick pile of the azure fabric. Something of a waste, really. He was only going to get it slopped up with beer and meat sauce and drippings from the feast. But that was okay, he thought. He could always get another one. 

“Finished,” Gimli said at last. Then he handed Kili the final component of the ensemble. 

A rich, fur-trimmed brocade sword cape of a shimmering silver-grey color. The ornately woven tie to fasten the cloak around the shoulders. Kili put on the cape and positioned its closure beneath his throat. Then he beamed at Gimli. He was ready to face the world.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul translations:
> 
>  _inùdôy_ \- Literally, "the sons." Intended meaning, "my sons."  
>  _bâhûn_ – Literally, "friend-man." Intended meaning, "older male friend."


	4. Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains highly graphic depictions of violence and adult themes. 
> 
> Have a box of tissues handy while reading.

The wizard caught the tail end of the ceremony by slipping in through a back entrance into the throne hall. His presence there among the dwarvish peasants went mostly unnoticed. His robes were the color of the grey stone around him, and he was good at lingering in the shadows. He often went unseen but for the occasional puff of pipe smoke that heralded his coming. But for now, at least for the ceremony, he refrained from pulling his pipe from his pocket. He wanted his mind to be clear. He owed that much to Thorin. 

The king had invited Gandalf to the ceremony many years before the event actually happened. The invitation had been extended at the end of a multi-day conference discussing the future of the dwarvish settlement in the Blue Mountains, the possibilities of retaking Erebor, and the reconsolidation of the last far-flung pockets of refugees into permanent dwarvish communities. Though Gandalf and Thorin had long had their differences in philosophy, at the end of the conference, Gandalf had conceded that Thorin had truly done wonders for his people. Gandalf respected that, and he regarded Thorin as an ally and rather as a friend, even if they saw very little of one other. 

And so, at the end of the conference, when Thorin had invited him for private ales, Gandalf had been happy to join him before leaving on further business. It was there, in the privacy of Thorin’s study, that Gandalf had learned something about Thorin’s family, the lad who would be heir, and ultimately the future of the entire dwarvish people. 

“I do hope you’ll be able to be here for Fili’s ceremony,” Thorin had said. “Fiftieth birthday celebrations for princes tend to be memorable affairs.” 

“Ah, indeed.” Gandalf hadn’t been there for Thorin’s coming of age, but he remembered Thrain’s birthday, and Thror’s as well. It had been too long since he’d seen a true dwarvish party. “I should very much like to be there. Do you mind me asking more about your nephew? You haven’t spoken much of your heir-to-be in all the time I’ve known you.” 

“Ah, well…” Thorin had finished his flagon and had rubbed a hand through his beard. “I suppose that’s because I wasn’t quite sure what to make of him at first.” 

“Whatever do you mean?” 

“I’ll admit, we were quite concerned for him once. But now that he’s older, I do think he will make a good heir and king after I am gone.” 

“I look forward to meeting your nephew, once his comes of age.” 

Thorin had stayed quiet for a moment. He’d seemed both proud and weary all at the same time. 

“Does something trouble you?” 

“I had never imagined raising children to be the challenge that it has turned out to be,” Thorin had admitted. “Rearing boys is sometimes harder than running a kingdom.” 

“Now, what makes you say that?” 

“Well…” Thorin had trailed off and had turned to stare at the fire. Once he’d done that, it was near impossible to get a further word out of him. Fortunately, Gandalf had long known just how to get Thorin to open up. 

“Oh, ah. Before I forget – I brought something with me from my travels.” Gandalf had pulled a pouch of weed from his pocket. He had tossed it across the desk to Thorin as he’d puffed some of the good stuff. The East Farthing longleaf had the hint of lemon and pine over the rich, earthy mouth-feel. A perfect recipe out of the Shire. Gentle, calming. A good variety to smoke when dealing with dwarves. “You might like this.” 

The king had picked it up and had raised his eyebrows at Gandalf. “You know I don’t smoke but on special occasions,” he’d said. 

“This is a special occasion. I won’t be back for years. Please, my friend. It’s my last night in Ered Luin. Indulge me.” 

Thorin had said nothing, but eventually he’d pulled his pipe from his desk drawer and then had packed it with a small pinch of the longleaf. Gandalf had watched calmly, puffing on his own pipe while Thorin had lit up. The weed had always helped to ease their conversations, and it had always done wonders to put Thorin in a giving, revealing mood. 

Gandalf had smiled faintly to himself when Thorin had finally started to show signs of the relaxation. 

“What troubles you about raising children? I’ve always found them to be quite entertaining.” 

“That’s because you have none of your own.” 

Gandalf had silently conceded the point. Other peoples’ children were, perhaps, more fun than having some of one’s own. At least one didn’t have to take other peoples’ children home after filling their bellies with sweeties or riling their spirits with fireworks. “Being a parent is a great challenge and an honor,” he’d said. “I trust you’re doing quite well.” 

“Well, I confess,” Thorin had said, “I worry somewhat about Fili. He’s a gentle child, and he struggles with his reading and his mathematics. But given his successes on the practice field, I do not doubt that he will one day make a decent king, if not necessarily one worthy of song. There is something troubling about his interactions with his brother, though. They are not close, those two. Nothing like I was with Frerin and Dis.” 

“Perhaps it is unwise to compare your relationship to your own siblings to that which exists between your nephews,” Gandalf had suggested. “You and Fili are different dwarves entirely, as are Kili and Frerin.” 

“Oh, it’s not like that. Fili is more like Frerin, and Kili like me. Or rather, as I was at one point.” 

Thorin had given Gandalf a wry half grin and he’d coughed a little on the longleaf. Indeed, hardship and hard work, despite the cruelty of the circumstances, had tempered Thorin into a far better leader than he might have otherwise been. He’d even seemed to recognize that in himself from time to time. But it usually took weed to get Thorin to see his own quality. 

“Though Kili is still rambunctious,” Thorin said, “I have no fear that he’ll turn out for the best.” 

“And Fili?” Gandalf had noticed the omission. “What of your heir in the making?” 

Thorin’s smile had faded. 

“He’s always been rather sensitive.” 

“Whatever do you mean?” 

“Do you not know the circumstances of Fili’s infancy?” 

Gandalf was silent. Of course, he had heard rumors. The first few years of the boy’s life had been hard ones, he’d heard. But he'd had no wish to assume exactly what that had meant. Fortunately, Thorin had been in a revealing mood, and after taking a long, slow drag on his pipe and letting it out in a slow cloud through his nostrils, the king had finally explained. 

“Fili was born in a filthy city of Men,” Thorin had said. “Those cities carry infection. His mother fell very ill after she’d birthed him. Dis nearly died. She could not nurse him due to the sickness.” 

“Good gracious me.” 

“Aye. The lad was reared by wet nurses for the first two years. He fell ill a few times as well, poor child. I do not think dwarvish children are meant to nurse from the tall people, but we had no choice. We couldn’t find another dwarrowdam who’d recently given birth.” 

“Dwarves are indeed very different from Men,” Gandalf had said. “In some of the most unexpected ways.” 

“Indeed.” Thorin had leaned back in his chair. He’d folded his hands together in his lap around his pipe bowl. “Well, Fili did recover, thank Mahal. But he was always rather quiet and perhaps somewhat simple because of what happened. But he is a good child, truly.” 

“I trust that does you well, knowing that you raised him.” 

“It hasn’t been easy. I’ve never seen a child as shy as Fili.” 

“Oh, really?” Gandalf had raised his eyebrows and had hummed as he’d stuck his pipe in his mouth. Then he’d coughed out the long drag of the longleaf. The bowl had gone harsh and had needed repacking. He’d cleaned out the old leaf and had replaced it with the new as he’d spoken. “Strange, for a dwarfling to be withdrawn. The children of your kind are boisterous, merry little creatures. I’ve always enjoyed the company dwarvish children.” 

“As I said, Fili is a gentle child. He reminds me of Frerin in so many ways.” 

Gandalf had smiled ruefully at the memory of Thorin’s younger brother. He’d been a kind lad with rare yellow hair. No wonder Thorin was so fond of his similarly tow-haired nephew, and so worried about him. Fili reminded Thorin of Frerin, and Frerin had died so young and in such a brutal manner. Fate, it seemed, had not been kind to the Line of Durin. 

“If Fili is like Frerin in disposition,” Gandalf had said, “it must be a great comfort to know that one day, he will sit your throne.” 

“Yes, actually. Fili has… turned out remarkably well, given everything. He is very kind and has learned to be a brilliant fighter. That may save his life one day, as it might have saved… well, as it might have saved Frerin.” Thorin had stared sullenly at his pipe bowl. Then he’d raised his eyebrows and he’d fixed his dilated blue eyes upon Gandalf. “You cannot know how grateful I am for that. That Fili truly knows how to fight.” 

“And what of the lad? Is Fili grateful to be so skilled a warrior?” 

“I cannot imagine otherwise. I would be, were I so talented at his age.” 

“Remember that Fili is not you. Not all children, not even all dwarvish children, place warfare above all other things.” 

Thorin had sucked hard upon his pipe at that. His frown had returned to harden his features and he’d shaken his head. 

“No, Fili does. Despite his gentleness, he has a deep sense of violence. He may not even be fully aware of it.” His voice had gone low and troubled. “When he was younger, he drove a drawing pencil through his brother’s palm.” 

“Oh, my.” 

“That concerned me. I’ve heard of otherwise good children becoming ruthless if they aren’t taught to channel their anger. So I took away the pencils and paper and put a sword into his hand. At least that way, his rage could be turned into something useful. That violence in him is not from the Line of Durin. Perhaps it is from his father, but that doesn’t seem quite right. He was a gentle dwarf, too.” 

“You have never spoken of your brother-in-law before.” 

“Have I not?” Thorin raised his eyebrows and then took a puff of the longleaf. “Well, suffice it to say, noble-born dwarves who choose to be painters rarely live long enough to father children at all. Much less see them grow into adulthood.” 

“Hmmm.” 

“That is why I do not regret taking Fili’s artwork away,” Thorin had said. “He’s a good warrior now. His rage is tempered, and he has honor, too. He never hits another dwarf unless he’s been struck first. Though he is indeed very quiet, he is kind, he is a good fighter, and he understands loyalty. I can ask no more than that from him.” He’d then smiled broadly at Gandalf. “With good advisers, he will indeed make a decent king of our people.” 

“Oh, well.” Gandalf had been flattered by Thorin’s words. “Thank you. If you do indeed find my advice to be useful, you may wish to take it now. You should return his artwork, if you believe he has learned that a pencil is not a weapon. He may find his voice if you give him the ability to express himself. As he wishes, not as you would choose for him. Do remember, it was you, not Fili, who chose to put the sword into his hand.” 

Thorin had sighed heavily at that. He’d taken a long final drag on his pipe. Once he’d realized that it was spent, he’d tapped out the ashes onto his desktop and had wiped away the remains into a little pile in his hand. 

“Well, I always appreciate your wisdom.” Thorin had stood. Then he’d gone to the fireplace and had brushed the ashes from his palms onto the flames. “I once promised Fili that I would return his pencils if he mastered the blade. I suppose it’s time I followed through on my own loyalties.” 

“I think that would be wise, indeed.” 

Gandalf had been cheered by Thorin’s rare moment of easy agreeability. That feeling of hopefulness had stayed with him as they’d finished the last of their ales that night, then through the following morning when he’d left Ered Luin, and finally throughout his travels for the next sixteen years. Durin’s Folk were doing well. Their future was stable. One day perhaps, if the signs were right, they would return home to Erebor. Then all would be right in the world. 

But now, seeing the coronation ceremony, the conversation about Thorin’s heir-to-be came back to Gandalf. Only this time, it came as a darker memory. Seeing the royal family for the first time together in public made Gandalf realize just how blind Thorin had been about his own nephews, the lads he’d raised as sons. It troubled Gandalf deeply, what he saw during the ceremony. 

The four members of the royal family stood in front of the entirety of their people, dressed in the finest of silks, velvets, brocades, and rare animal furs. Thorin had not taken the throne, for this was not his ancestral seat. Instead, he stood before the stone chair upon the second-highest step. To his left were his sister and his younger sister-son, very obviously mother and child from their physical similarity. Already, the younger lad was tall, handsome and majestic-looking for his age, and he carried himself in a way that said that he knew it. In striking contrast was the elder prince, the heir-to-be, standing to Thorin’s right. What Gandalf saw in that fair-haired lad brought back the worry that Thorin had expressed but had seriously downplayed during their most recent meeting. 

The first thing that struck Gandalf about Fili was his size. The child was tiny, even for a dwarfling. Though he had muscle to him, he was much shorter than his younger brother and far too narrow across the shoulders to be truly healthy. He wasn’t malnourished, but even at this distance Gandalf could see a vacant look to his features. As if he had gone without something as vital as food for years. He didn’t look his fifty years of age. He looked ten or more years younger in body and a decade more in mannerisms. The little boy swayed slightly on his feet, and when the ceremony concluded and Thorin placed the coronet upon his head, he stiffened and he curled his little fingers into fists. Then as the entirety of Durin’s Folk erupted into cheers, Fili closed his arms in around his ribcage, clutching his body tightly as if the sound was going to harm him. 

Caught up in the ceremony, Thorin didn’t even seem to notice. He set a proud hand upon the boy’s right shoulder and he beamed out at his people, wholly unaware that the child was now staring expressionless at his uncle’s fingers. 

Then the little boy gave a smile. A tiny smile, a shy smile. He looked up at his uncle and, as if being given permission, he tentatively reached up and touched the golden coronet upon his head. He took it off and turned it over in his hands. His smile seemed to fade at the sight of it. Then his face fell, crestfallen, but eventually he placed the coronet upon his own head once more. 

The younger brother smirked a little on the other side of the dais. The mother didn’t seem to notice her son’s expression, but at least Dis had the kindness to stride over to the elder boy and straighten the lopsided coronet. 

Fili’s smile returned as she touched his hair and left her fingers lingering for a moment upon his left shoulder. Then right there in the middle of the dais, in front of his entire people, the boy threw his arms around his mother’s waist and buried his face in the blue velvet front of her dress. 

She stiffened. The applause faltered. 

As the clapping began to die, Gandalf heard someone whisper to another dwarf. Then another whisper, this one suspicious. Then much his relief, a massive dwarf clambered up onto the dais, wholly uninvited. The big, bald, tattooed warrior grabbed Fili and jerked him away from his mother. He hoisted the boy’s tiny hand into the air. 

“Prince Fili!” The big dwarf bellowed with a wild grin. “The champion of the tourney field!” 

The hall erupted into cheers again. The dwarves had remembered that even above tradition, ceremony, and callous dignity, there was only one value that they held above all others. 

Gandalf had seen enough. He swiftly excused himself from the throne hall and made his way quickly to the feast hall. He had to take a place at the royal table before the feast got going. Once it was underway, he would never be able to make it clear to Thorin that his elder sister-son was far from ready to be an heir of dwarves. 

It wasn’t long before the servants bustled into the massive feast hall, carrying trays upon trays of rich food and countless kegs of ale that they piled high onto every table. Gandalf ignored them. He took up a seat in a rather tight-squeezing chair at the head table, knowing full well that Thorin would either be pleasantly surprised or terribly annoyed at his presumptuousness. But that hardly mattered now. Gandalf had to put a stop to Thorin’s decades-long blunder. 

When the royal family finally swept into the feast hall, Thorin raised his eyebrows as he noticed his old friend. 

“Gandalf!” Thorin beamed and rushed forward as the wizard got to his feet. “You’ve made it after all. How wonderful. Fili, come here!” He turned and beckoned for the little yellow-haired child. When Fili came to him, Thorin gestured briefly from Gandalf to his heir. “Fili, this is Gandalf. He is one of my very good friends.” 

The boy came forward, mouth hanging slightly open as he stared up at the comparably massive wizard. Then he shut his mouth, swallowed, and whispered, “How do you do?” 

“I am very well, thank you.” Gandalf knelt down in front of the child. He took the little boy’s calloused hand and shook it gently. “And how are you, Prince Fili?” 

Fili said nothing. He only stared silently at Gandalf’s hand, so massive compared to his own. 

Gandalf couldn’t help but look over at Thorin. From the look that passed over Thorin’s face, Gandalf realized that he must have been frowning. He made it a point to smile before looking back at the child. “Can you say ‘hello?’” 

“Hello,” Fili murmured. “It is nice to meet you.” 

“It really is my pleasure.” Gandalf couldn’t help but smile at the child’s sweet politeness. Up close and in person, he seemed even younger than he had in the ceremony. It touched something deep in Gandalf’s spirit. 

But at Gandalf’s smile, Fili only frowned a little, wide blue eyes searching Gandalf’s features for something that Gandalf couldn’t identify. The child had such a young face, but his eyes seemed ancient. 

_What ever happened to you, child?_

“May I please be your friend?” 

Fili withdrew his hand and closed his arms around his chest. Shoulders curled forward, fingers closed around his elbows. Then he nodded faintly. “Okay.” 

“Come now, Fili. The feast is about to start!” 

Gandalf glanced up at Princess Dis’s words. The dwarrowdam had pulled out the chair at the head of the table for her son before taking her seat in the first chair to the left, across from where Thorin was taking his own seat. Once she was comfortable she gave Gandalf a warm smile and cocked her head at the empty seat beside her. 

“This is Fili’s big day,” she said as if explaining why the child was at the head of the table. “Gandalf, you’re welcome to join us here. Please, sit next to me.” 

“Ah, thank you, Dis. but I’ll sit here, if you don’t mind.” He took the chair to Thorin’s right and watched out of the corner of his eye as the little heir climbed up awkwardly into his seat. Then he turned his attention to Thorin as the king leaned in towards him. 

“I was going to have Kili sit where you are,” Thorin muttered. “Otherwise he’ll find himself staying all night at the unruly boys’ table. Then Mahal knows where he’ll end up as the feast carries on.” 

Thorin tossed a nod across the long feast hall at his younger nephew. Gandalf turned to look. Across the growing crowd, he could see that the younger prince had tossed his arm around a smaller red-haired dwarf lad, and he now appeared to be telling some wildly funny joke to two other similarly handsome, athletic lads. As Kili concluded the joke, his sycophantic little friends all guffawed in laughter. Then they all turned to collectively ogle some passing dwarfling girls who they couldn’t possibly be old enough to have desires for. 

They’d already gotten into the ale, too. Children, at the drink. 

Try as he might, there were some things about dwarves that Gandalf might never understand. He turned back to Thorin, not getting out of the chair. He could deal with Kili later. Right now, the task was Fili. 

“After making it so clear during the ceremony that convention can sometimes be flexible,” he said to Thorin, “I thought it wouldn’t trouble you to bend the rules for just a few moments. Not to worry, I won’t stay long.” 

“Very well,” Thorin acquiesced. “But I’m not discussing matters of the throne right now. This is a celebration, not a meeting of lords.” 

“Of course.” Gandalf began to put food upon the empty plate in front of him. He didn’t really notice just what he was picking out. That didn’t matter. He wasn’t very hungry anyways. 

“So what did you want to tell me?” 

Thorin didn’t have to whisper anymore. Already, the feast hall was filled with the echoing laughter of the dwarves. The noise would only grow louder over the next fifty hours, ebbing and flowing as the dwarves grew drunker and wilder in their festivities before the feast finally concluded after two solid days of revelry. 

“Do you remember our conversation a few years ago?” 

“I told you, no matters of the throne.” 

“No,” Gandalf said. He lowered his voice and leaned in to speak in Thorin’s ear. “I mean, about Fili.” 

They both glanced over at Thorin’s nephew, silent at the head of the table. Fili had taken a small portion of food and was now eating politely with his silverware. Wide eyes fixed on his supper. It was his party, but no one seemed to notice he was there at all. 

Then suddenly from behind him, the massive tattooed dwarf who had rescued his dignity in the throne hall appeared. He had a half-eaten cookie in one hand and a pair of gigantic, meaty globes cut from some poor creature in the other. With a raucous laugh, he plopped the fried testicles onto Fili’s plate. 

“Try ‘em, laddie!” The big dwarf bellowed, spraying the prince in cookie crumbs and spittle. “They’ll put th’ fire of adulthood in ye!” 

“Dwalin, it’s forbidden!” Thorin’s attention was lost now. He backhanded the other dwarf’s massive, scarred forearm. The big warrior merely laughed and clapped his king on the back. 

“Ah, ye know that’s a made-up rule, remember?” The dwarf named Dwalin grabbed his king by the jaw and planted a huge, wet kiss upon Thorin’s mouth. “Find me later and we’ll relive yer birthday revelries, eh?” 

Thorin reddened and pushed his friend away. Dwalin guffawed and went off towards the ale kegs. 

Dwalin hadn’t even been drinking yet. 

This was no party for a child. 

“Thorin,” Gandalf said urgently. “When you told me that you thought that Fili was ready to be an heir, I had no idea that you only meant in combat.” 

He glanced back over at the boy. Fili was staring curiously at the testicles that Dwalin had dumped onto his meal, unsure of whether to try them or to push them away for the food that he had picked for himself. 

“Fili, I’ll take those.” Gandalf reached in front of Thorin for the foul things. He plucked them off Fili’s plate, dumped them on his own, and scooted them to the side with no intention of eating them. “Trust me, you wouldn’t like them much.” 

“Don’t coddle the boy.” Thorin gave Gandalf a sharp glare as he cut into the red, dripping ribs of some other unnamed creature that had ended up on a plate. “He’s fifty, not thirty.” 

“Are you so sure?” 

Thorin paused, fork in midair. Then he bristled. “Of course I’m sure! For a wizard, you’re rather dense at times.” 

“I might say the same thing about you as a king!” Gandalf growled. “Do you not see that Fili is not ready to be your heir?” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Thorin slammed his fist down on the table and he shot to his feet. When the other dwarves at the head table turned and noisily started taking bets on when the fistfight would break out, Thorin grabbed Gandalf by the sleeve. He hauled him out of the chair with the shocking strength only held by dwarves. 

“Easy, now!” Gandalf protested. 

He pulled his arm out of Thorin’s grasp and followed the king out into the hallway. Once outside of the feast hall, where it was far quieter, Thorin wheeled on Gandalf. 

“How dare you!” Thorin bellowed. “This is one of the biggest events of Fili’s life. You were invited, yes, but you have the audacity to just sit at the head table as if you are a member of the royal family. And then you tell me that Fili, a lad of fifty, is not prepared to take his place as heir! You know nothing about it, or about him!” 

“Neither do you, apparently! Have you not even noticed him? He is stunted, that one! His behavior is that of a child half his age.” 

“If you saw him on the practice field, you would say otherwise.” 

“There is more to being a leader than victory in arms, Thorin!” 

Thorin’s eyes faltered. He dropped his gaze to the floor. 

“My brother died, barely older than Fili is now, because he did not know how to fight.” Thorin’s voice had suddenly thickened with bitter remorse at the memory. “The orcs slaughtered him and defiled his body. He was a _child._ Frerin wanted to write music. He shirked the sword for the fiddle, and when we had to go to war, he was one of the first to die. I will never let that be Fili’s fate, and I do not regret my decision to train him as a fighter.” 

“Train him for combat however much you like,” Gandalf said, “but not at the expense of everything else!” 

“I gave Fili everything he’s ever asked for. His drawing pencils, fine clothing, good food. He never wanted anything more.” 

“Have you asked him that?” 

Thorin blinked. Then he scowled again. “Fili is a good child,” he said. “He would never complain for want even if I asked him. Unlike some, who always seem dissatisfied at everything – even celebrations!” 

“I beg your pardon!” Gandalf huffed. “I am trying to help you, Thorin!” 

“I don’t need your help in raising my own family!” 

With that, Thorin pushed past Gandalf and disappeared into the feast hall once again. 

Gandalf stared after Thorin long after he had gone. The sheer unpredictability of Thorin’s obstinacy was infuriating. 

“The stubbornness of dwarves!” he cursed. 

He was tempted to leave right then and there. But the prospect of leaving that little child to grow up into adulthood without ever having learned to do anything but fight was utterly terrifying. What would become of the dwarves if their leader was a wordless fighter who could be easily swayed into eating whatever was dumped onto his plate? The boy was naïve, vulnerable. He might be poisoned by a jealous rival, or trusting thing that he was, let himself be led into danger far beyond his abilities. Then the entire people could fall into the hands of the second prince. That one, charismatic and popular and entitled, had far more potential to be dangerous. 

He damned himself under his breath for daring to interfere. But he had to do something. Though he was not yet sure what that would be, perhaps Fili himself could tell Gandalf just what was needed. 

He slipped back into the feast hall, barely seen. He dodged a massive orange-haired dwarf who waddled furiously past him. The fat dwarf didn’t even notice him, too caught up in the full dead pig upon his platter to pay heed to the wizard he’d nearly flattened. Gandalf harrumphed and made his way back to the head table, dodging the increasingly rowdy antics of the merry dwarves around him. 

When he got back to the head table, he froze in dread. The boy was gone. 

He quickly searched the hall for a sign of the child. Only a few yellow heads were to be seen in the crowd, but those were all adults. But then he finally saw the boy slip barely seen between two boisterous merchants. 

Gandalf heaved a sigh of relief. Then he followed the boy through the crowd, hoping to corner him before he got himself into serious trouble. But before Gandalf could reach Fili, another soul got to him first. The little red-haired dwarfling he’d seen earlier with Kili had now cornered Fili near some ale kegs. Friendly smile belying the glint of cruelty in his eyes. 

Gandalf hastened to put a stop to whatever was going to happen, but on this end of the hall, away from the politer noble tables, he was having trouble cutting his way through the hard press of short, heavy bodies against him. 

“Pardon me, pardon me!” He said as he tried to move, but no one seemed to hear him. It was as if he was invisible. His patience was wearing thin. “Out of the way now, if you please!” 

He was within twenty paces of the children when the younger prince and two other dwarflings appeared at Fili’s side. Kili had a beautiful, friendly smile plastered upon his flawless features. Gandalf had seen enough to know that there was no kindness lurking behind that convincing façade. 

“Fili!” He bellowed. But his voice was lost in the noise. 

He could only watch with horror as just then, Fili did something wholly unexpected. The little boy grabbed his brother by the sides of the face and pressed a kiss to his mouth. 

Kili recoiled as if scalded. He shoved his brother back and yelled something in Fili’s face. Then he smacked his brother hard across the cheek, his silver ring slicing open a gash through Fili’s stubble. 

Fili slammed back against the ale kegs, clutching his cheek in pain. Then something seemed to snap in the young heir. After that, everything happened so quickly. Fili suddenly grabbed the first thing he could find to use as a weapon. A candelabra. He closed a tiny fist around it and with a shriek of fury he drove the lit candles into his brother’s velvet doublet. Then as Kili caught fire, Fili began to beat his brother in the face with the candlestick. Kili went down hard, screaming. 

Finally, the nearby adults took notice. A few of the lower class dwarves jumped up and flew into action. One grabbed an ale keg and smashed it on the floor beside Kili. Then he rolled the prince in the beer until the flames were quenched. Another dwarf reached for Fili, but the heir, not knowing friend from foe, spun the candelabra in his hand and drove the base of it into the older dwarf’s face. A metal prong embedded itself into the dwarf’s eye socket. Blood and clear fluid spurted from the miner’s ruined eye. He bellowed in agony as Fili’s hand slipped off the candelabra and the thing clattered to the floor, tearing the dwarf’s eyeball from between the eyelids. Then Fili disappeared like a ghost into the crowd. 

“Everyone, MOVE!” Gandalf summoned up his power and the shadow descended upon the hall. The dwarves around him cowered in sudden terror. Immediately Gandalf kicked them out of the way and took off after the tiny prince. He leapt over the beer-drenched bully writhing on the floor and chased after Fili. 

He searched frantically for the lad, but the prince was nowhere to be seen. Then he saw it. The swinging door to the kitchens. He barged past the grousing, confused dwarvish peasants until he finally got to the kitchen door. 

He burst into the kitchen. The heat and steam billowed up around him. He squinted past the bustling cooks and servants and the commotion. Too many places to hide. He’d never find a child as tiny as Fili in a place like this. 

Gandalf darted back into the feast hall. By now, the whole place was in an uproar. He pushed his way back up to the head table. Kili had run back to his family and was now bawling in his mother’s arms. Thorin was furious. 

“What happened!?” He bellowed as soon as he saw Gandalf. “Did you see it?” 

“I saw everything!” Gandalf cried. He quickly assessed the damage to the young prince. The lad was bloodied and singed, and though he’d be fine eventually, Kili howled as if he’d been the one to lose an eye. 

“Tell me what happened! Where’s Fili?” 

“He disappeared,” Gandalf said frantically. 

“Find the prince!” Thorin bellowed. 

Immediately, a host of warriors led by the big, bald Dwalin jumped up from some of the upper tables. Dis leaped up over the table and caught up with the warriors, yelling for Fili as she took up the search for her child. They fanned out through the feast hall and into the hallways, the kitchens, the side chambers. Everywhere. 

Gandalf turned his attention back to Kili. 

“Why is he so mean?” The boy cried pitifully. “I hate Fili!” 

“You were the one who hit him first!” Gandalf yelled at him. “Why did you strike your own brother?” 

“What!?” Thorin crouched down and grabbed Kili by the shoulders. “Is that true? Did you hit Fili?” 

Kili scowled at his uncle. He shook his head furiously. “It’s not true! Gandalf’s a liar!” 

Enraged, Thorin slapped his nephew across the face. Kili’s eyes went wide and his jaw dropped in shock. Then he burst into an extraordinarily noisy fit of tears and wailing. 

“Thorin, I’m getting him out of here!” Gandalf swept up the bawling brat’s hand and dragged Kili from the feast hall. The king and several members of his household followed him on hot pursuit. Gandalf heeded none of them as he hastened through the halls towards the royal chambers. 

“Which one?” Gandalf cried when they finally reached the apartments. 

“Here!” Thorin slammed open a door and they burst into the room. Then the king shut the door behind him so that now it was only Thorin, Gandalf, and Kili in the royal apartment. 

The room was lavish, but a terrible mess. The opulence and finery could have fed a starving village for a year, but it had all been spent on fine furniture and fancy artwork that had been callously mistreated. If this was indeed Kili’s room, the deep disregard for the worth of his own possessions screamed that the boy had no idea of a world beyond his own wealthy upbringing. 

Gandalf was enraged at the sight of the waste. He forced himself to restrain his anger as he pushed the sobbing, spoiled prince down onto a plush velvet sofa. 

“Sit and behave!” Gandalf ordered. 

Kili’s eyes went wide but his mouth clamped shut. He clearly didn’t know what to do. He’d never been truly disciplined in his life. 

Gandalf wheeled on Thorin. He used his height to tower over the flustered dwarvish king. 

“Do you want to know what actually happened?” 

“Where did Fili go?” 

“I do not know!” Before Thorin could cut him off, Gandalf quickly recounted the events in the feast hall. 

Thorin’s eyes went wide as Gandalf revealed the truth. When the wizard had finished, the king suddenly turned with fury on his younger nephew. 

“Kili, how dare you!” 

“No, Thorin!” Gandalf slammed his palm into Thorin’s chest, restraining him from taking out his rage on the already injured child. He knelt and pulled his face in close to Thorin’s and whispered so low that only the king could hear. “Listen to me. Fili is like a wild, injured animal. Kili is a spoiled monster. Do you finally see that something is terribly wrong with the children you’ve raised?” 

Thorin’s jaw dropped. His face drained of all its color. His eyes fell to the floor. He was at a loss for words. 

“I want to help you,” Gandalf said, softening his tone. “Please, let me do what I can to make this right.” 

Thorin continued to stare at Gandalf’s boots. Then he finally asked, “Whatever can you do?” 

“Let me take Kili for a few years,” Gandalf said. 

“A dwarf child, out in the dangers of the world? Are you mad?” 

“Some would say that I am.” Gandalf gave a low emphasis to every word. “But your youngest is a selfish brat who needs to see that there are consequences to his actions, before he is too old to be steered off his current path towards cruelty.” 

“And Fili?” Thorin’s eyes were suddenly filled with tears. “He ran away from the feast. He put out the eye of a dwarf with a candlestick! What about him?” 

“I do not know,” Gandalf admitted. “He troubles me, too. He’s hiding right now, somewhere in your kingdom. Once your dwarves find him, we’ll see what we can do. He needs love more than discipline. With Kili in my care, you can give Fili the attention he needs and deserves.” 

Already he was formulating a plan for the young heir. Once they’d found him, he’d ensure that Fili got every ounce of love and kindness that his spoiled little sibling had gotten in his stead. The boys needed tempering, and they were not getting it at home. They needed compassion and discipline in equal measure, and neither Fili nor Kili had received enough of either. 

“Give me a few years,” Gandalf said. “Let me show Kili the world beyond the royal halls.” 

“Absolutely not,” Thorin said stubbornly. “The world is not safe for the helpless, for the women and children.” 

That insult enraged Gandalf all over again. 

“You fool!” He drew himself back up to full height. “If you will not let me take the boy, I’ll stay here until such time as I see that they are decent children who have a sense of other peoples’ existence. I’ll take over their lessons, and you will not question my methods. Is that clear?” 

“What makes you presume that you know better than I do when raising dwarvish children?” 

“Because I know children!” Gandalf boomed. “Dwarves or otherwise! And what I know is that one day, children turn into adults. If you let Fili and Kili come of age as they are, in the worst case, you will end up with one dead prince and a tyrant for the other. Is that how you wish your family to be remembered?” 

Thorin gasped silently. He dropped his eyes to the floor once more as the truth of Gandalf’s words sank in. He suddenly looked so very old and weary. He’d seen far too much trouble in his life. Gandalf saw that Thorin was doing the best he could, but it was not enough. Not by a long shot. Sometimes, it took more than just two people to raise a healthy family. 

Gandalf winced sadly. He placed a hand on Thorin’s shoulder and turned, glancing back behind him at Kili. The little prince was, like his uncle, staring silently at the floor. His face was still bloodied and tear-streaked, but he’d gone silent, tantrum finished. There was true remorse in his large black eyes. He’d been punished enough for one evening. Gandalf turned back to Thorin once again. 

“Please let me help you, my friend. I swear that I will do the best that I possibly can.” 

Thorin swallowed. When he lifted his eyes to Gandalf’s once more, the tears finally spilled over. He swiftly wiped them away, lest anyone else come in to see him in a moment of weakness. At last, he gave Gandalf a weak nod and said, “Very well. You will be their teacher. You’ll have them every afternoon, after combat training. Evenings will be spent with -” 

But just then, the door to the apartment banged open. The big dwarf named Dwalin burst in, huffing like a terrified bull. 

“Thorin!” Dwalin cried. “We cannot find him!” 

“What!?” The king spun and ran to his general. He grabbed Dwalin by the arms and tried to run out of the apartment, but Dwalin held him firm. “Where is Fili!?” 

“We’re searching, my king! This I swear to you!” 

“NO! Where is my sister-son!?” What last remaining vestiges of grace which Thorin still had disintegrated around him as the harrowing prospect of Fili’s disappearance became clear, so dreadfully clear. 

“We’ve got every dwarrow in the kingdom looking for him!” Dwalin pulled the now hysterical Thorin into his arms. The two collapsed to the floor, the general clutching his king. Trying to console his friend when there was absolutely nothing they could do to ensure Fili’s safety. “Thorin, my king! We’re trying to find him!” 

“Fili! Oh, my sister-son, my child!” 

Thorin’s cry descended into an unearthly wail that echoed off the walls of the chamber. Dwalin wept as he cradled his inconsolable king to his chest. The general gave a soft, deep sob as he looked up at Gandalf for help. The tears streaked from his pleading eyes down the creases in his craggy face. Then his eyes fell closed as he slipped away into despair. 

“Mahal – Mahal!” Thorin cried. “My child! Fili! Oh, let him be safe, let him be safe!” 

“Thorin...” Dwalin pressed his lips to his king’s temple. “I promise you. We’re doing what we can. We’ll find him, love. We’ll find him.” 

From his place, forgotten in the shadows, Gandalf watched the two dwarves as they tried in vain to comfort each other. From deep within his own ancient and withered heart, Gandalf felt the pang of terrible sorrow for the little boy lost. 

The entire kingdom would search for Fili, but they would never find him. Not that child. Gandalf saw it now. Children like Fili were too wild. They felt too unloved by their own people when nothing could be further from the truth. 

Fili would not want to be found by his family, and so he never would be. 

Gandalf’s own misery at the ancient cruelty of fate swelled up inside him from that broken place deep within his soul. He wished then that he could weep. He wanted it more than anything. But he had seen far too much of the world, too much suffering to be moved to tears, not even by the loss of that gentle and innocent child.


	5. Who?

The icy winter rain pelted down through the pines and pin oaks around the child as he ran. The streams of water dragged the old, dead leaves from their boughs. Down to decay amidst the fallen needles. 

It was so cold here, so very cold. 

Foolish, foolish boy! 

Why had he run away into the forest, where he would never be found? 

Fili had escaped the ancient halls through the ventilation shafts. Once free, he had run as hard and as fast as he could towards the south. Winter was already upon him. He had to get to warmth. 

As he’d fled he’d soon come to know his terrible mistake. The wild of the mountains was cold and scary. The dark nights with their hooting owls. So many different calls. 

Who, they seemed to say. As if demanding an answer to the question, Who are you, lost child? 

Fili, he cried. My name is Fili. 

Who? 

They did not know him. They’d never known his name. 

Mama! Mama, I’m sorry! 

None but the questioning owls and the heartless rain gave answer. 

* * * * *

Fili splashed through the shallowest places of every stream and river he crossed. He had to keep moving. For days he kept running away. 

He would never, ever go back. 

Get off me, the pretty child had said. You freak. 

They did not want him to come back home and so he never could. 

* * * * *

He heard the roaring of the river long before he saw it. When he finally laid eyes upon the waters, it was a wild and terrifying thing. His heart pounded in his chest but he knew he had to cross it. 

Fili could not go home. He had to keep moving. 

Keep on moving or be found by a monster. 

Keep on moving or die. 

* * * * *

Fili traversed the side of the river for miles before he saw the way. The overturned tree, the bridge to the other side. The wood would be slick, he knew. Wet from the misty waves of the river below. 

He had to keep going. He could never go back. 

Fili placed his booted foot upon the slippery bark and forced himself to walk. Knees bent and arms stretched out for balance, legs trembling as he moved. A foul step and the smooth sole of his fancy boot slipped. He smacked hard upon the log and barely caught himself. Below the river bellied up, eager to swallow him down if he fell. Shaking he crawled his way across the log. Slowly, dread building as he went. When his tattered silks caught on a knot in the wood he slipped again. This time he fell screaming into the icy river. 

The rough waters consumed him and buffeted his little body as they dragged him away downstream. Water splashed into his lungs and he struggled for air. So hard to fight the current. He was drowning in it. The river smashed him against stones and something broke in his shoulder. Searing pain. Icy water filling his lungs as it swept him under. He began to die, so far away from home. 

As the dwarfling prince perished, he had one final, sad thought. 

I’m sorry, Mama. 

He had tried, he had tried so very hard. But he’d never been good enough for her. 

* * * * *

He came to life again with the biting cold of winter air in his watery lungs. 

Everything aching. Pain in his chest and back and especially his shoulder. 

He hurt, but the true threat was the water. He coughed out the last of it and curled up on the river bank, shivering in the cold. 

His foot was icy cold, he realized. He touched it. Lost a boot. He pulled off the second and cast it away across the pebbles. 

When he opened his eyes at last, he could see the river. It took him some time but soon enough he knew that it was flowing west. Away to his left, towards the sea. 

He, a castaway upon the southern shore. 

Finally, he was free. 

* * * * *

Eventually he managed to bring himself to his feet. Everything still aching. His right arm worse than the rest. 

He touched his shoulder and felt the dislocation. He bit down on his lip as he gripped himself by the elbow. When he jerked his arm back up into the socket, he screamed out in agony. And then that pain was gone.

But even with the hurt of his body diminishing, he could not stop his crying. 

Through his tears, he looked down at his feet. He pulled off the stockings and wrung them out and kept them to wear in the night. 

His bare feet hurt when he moved on from the shores of the river. Tender soles shredding on the sticks and stones and thorns. But soon enough, that no longer mattered. After many days, the frigid nature on his calloused bare feet no longer caused him pain. 

* * * * *

When the snows came in he hid in a burrow beneath the roots of an ancient tree. A body in here already. An old and silvering badger curled up to die in its den. 

Not dead for long, that one. Cold and frozen, but not decayed. 

The body gave him warmth and food until he had consumed it down to the bones. The furs he took as his own and he thanked the dead friend for his gift. 

I am a badger now, he said. 

Better a badger than a dwarfling. Badgers were black and white and sometimes grey. But not yellow. Never yellow. 

He pressed his paws to his face. Touched his little badger nose. Still fingers, the digits. Not furry little black toe pads, like they should have been. 

He imagined the fingers were those of his nameless friend. This one, who had once been dark and beautiful but now, was featureless. This one, who would never call him a freak for simply being ugly or for being in love. 

I miss you so. 

His friend said nothing. Merely touched his cheek with cold fingers. 

* * * * *

Sooner or later even badgers got hungry and had to find food. 

He was weird for a badger, as he had been weird for a dwarf. Most of his kind could live through all the cold months in the ground. But not him. He’d wasted away too quickly. The badger was skinny now. All fat consumed, muscles gone. Nothing but bones beneath the papery skin, tattered velvet, stolen furs. 

When the snows had started to melt into water that dripped down from the trees, he emerged from his den, stomach growling. 

Food, he said. 

At least he still could speak. 

* * * * *

He wandered for many weeks and many miles through the earliest part of spring. Little points of green grass poked up through the patchy snow. 

No berries yet. Only grass and pine needles. He ate the seeds from the pinecones and drank the sweet blood of the trees. A few times he got lucky and managed to catch a mouse. The furs of the little prey stuck in his mouth when he ate them whole. He washed the hairs out from between his teeth with snowmelt. 

At times, when mice were scarce, he looked longingly at the birdies in the trees overhead. Meaty little things, some of the bigger ones. 

But birdies were hard for earthbound badgers to catch. 

That was okay. 

Birdies made happy noises that badgers could listen to. 

Pretty birdies. Red breasted thrush and black raven and blue jay. Even the little yellow one he’d never learned to name was not so bad. Ugly as it was, if he closed his eyes and ignored its color, it had the prettiest song. 

* * * * *

When the warmth finally came back to the earth he shed his badger skin and was reborn as something else entirely. Something grimy and half naked and scrawny. Featherless baby bird. Ugly. 

Still better than a yellow dwarfling. 

* * * * *

Here in the valley the pines had given way to oaks and maples. Samaras fluttering amidst the little green leaves. Signs of life returning. 

The snow had long since melted into green moss and glistening dew. The spring flowers had been drawn in more vibrant colors than could ever be found in a box of pencils. The little birdies sang in their nests and played with other little birdies. Dancing and raising their babies. 

The little ones squawked raucously when Mama came to feed them. Open mouths making a racket as she gave them their suppers. 

He loved to watch all the little birdies in the air and the nests as he passed them on his journey. Some nests were built in the trees. Others in the ground. Some between the reeds. Little brown warblers who chattered and chip-chip-chipped and purred as he passed the reedy marshes. Noisy birds, warblers. He liked the noisy ones. 

In one nest, a massive big baby had long since hatched before its siblings. The child watched the creature. Featherless and struggling, eyes sealed shut. 

Ugly like me, cuckoo baby. 

No sound in response from its big red mouth. 

He sat beside the reeds and watched the cuckoo writhe in the nest. Jostling the eggs. Soon the little brown mother came and the baby relaxed as she fed him. 

He gave them a small smile. 

Mama loves you, little birdie. 

He went to sleep there by the marsh, listening to the cuckoo squirm in the earliest stages of its life. 

* * * * *

Sometime in the dawn hours he awoke to hear a gentle splash. Then later, another. 

He looked up and squinted through the half-light just in time to see the cuckoo push the last egg from the nest. 

No! 

The egg splashed into the water beside the reeds. 

He dove into the water and found the egg. Then another. But the third egg, the first of the cuckoo’s victims and the one he hadn’t been awake enough to save, had been lost. 

He held the little eggs and cried for them and for their lost sibling. 

The cuckoo baby looked at him. Silent red mouth open. Cruel, selfish creature. 

He ran away from the bird’s nest, eggs clutched in his hands. 

* * * * *

He built a nest for the little bird eggs out of sticks and reeds. He carried the nest, cradled in his featherless hands. Covering the top with his palm at night for warmth. 

For three cycles of the sun above the trees, he wandered with his bird eggs. 

He did not know if they would live. Nor if he could care for them after their mother’s love had been stolen. 

But if they hatched he’d try. 

He hoped they’d hatch. He hoped for that above all. 

* * * * *

On the morning of the third day he awoke to hear it. 

The soft crackle, the gentle brush of motion beneath his hand. 

He lifted his fingers and looked. 

There he saw them. The two little lives he had saved. One half broken out of its shell, the other already free. He watched as the first birdie finally pushed its way out of its confines. The baby collapsed against the supportive warmth of its stronger sibling. 

Exhausted, peeping things, both. One curling up to the other as if to existence. Eyes squeezed shut and feathers plastered to their wretched bodies. 

There had never been anything so beautiful in all the days of his life. 

* * * * *

As the day passed the little birdies grew demanding. Crying, always crying for food and for attention. He obliged them. He picked up bugs and spiders and little worms as he passed. He fed them to the babies as Mama had done for the cuckoo bird. They were never satisfied. Always wanting more. He didn’t mind. He happily gave them every bug that he could see. 

Eventually the downy feathers of the birdies came in. Over the course of the first few days, they preened themselves and each other until they were fluffy. 

His heart had nearly stopped once he realized their color. Grey brown on the back. Hideous yellow on the breast. Grumpy faces, too. No wonder the featherless cuckoo had pushed them from the nest. 

He felt so sad then, for the ugly creatures of the world. 

I’m ugly like you, he said. 

They only cried at him, wanting food. Nothing more. 

I’ll take care of you, ugly birdies. We can be ugly together. 

* * * * *

His two little birdies perched huddled together on his shoulder as he wandered through the wild. Chirping endlessly to him and to themselves and to each other. He liked to hear them talking. As if telling him stories about the world he observed around them. 

Gentle countryside, this. Lots of crickets in the meadows. Many spring flowers amidst the high green grasses. 

At night he slept in the shelter of the woods that encircled the fields. Chilly at times, but not too bad. He cradled his birdies at night, defending them from the curious eyes of the owls above. 

Predators, those. Harmless to him, but to his little ones they were death if ever his watch should falter. 

Who, they sometimes asked him. 

I do not know, he said. But I think I am a bird. Like you. 

Who? 

Yes, you. You can’t have my birdies. 

Who. 

Because they’re mine. 

* * * * *

One misty morning he awoke and set out wandering. 

The field today was different. Tall stalks of something green and cultivated. 

In the middle of the field was a person. He hid from the person for hours before he realized the person did not move. Eventually he approached the scarecrow. A frayed jacket over its stick shoulders. A few black crows on its straw hat. Bird friends for the scarecrow. They weren’t scared and so neither was he. 

He moved on until he came to a place of seemingly endless gentle, rolling hills. A few lines of branches strung together around the hillsides. Clusters of flowers behind the lines. Big wooden circles in the hillsides, a stone path cut through the little valleys. Strange sensation, cobblestones beneath his calloused toes. 

He rounded a bend in the path and there he ran straight into it. 

The person. 

This one, alive and moving. This one, a threat. 

He gave a shriek of terror and ran back into the woods from whence he came. There in the shelter of the trees he sank to the forest floor and cradled his head between his knees. His birdies on his shoulder crying out their fear for the three of them. 

Please don’t take my birdies, he cried. Please, they’re all I have. 

* * * * *

Hello? 

He stayed as still as the roots of the tree in whose well he had hidden himself, listening to the echo of the voice. Heart thumping painfully in his chest. 

Hello? 

Closer now. The predator. He squeezed his eyes closed and the tears of terror streamed down his face. He sobbed softly. His birds had ceased to be afraid but he was still so frightened. 

Why are you so scared, the birdies chirped at him. 

He did not answer. He could not speak for fear that he would be found. 

I’m not going to hurt you! 

The voice was so close now. Just on the other side of the tree. The rustle of leaves underfoot as the monster searched for him. 

He covered his ears and he willed the voice to leave him alone. 

Please don’t find me. Please don’t eat me or my birdies. 

Eventually all things beyond the chatter of his birds went quiet all around him. Hesitantly he lifted his head from between his knees. He pulled his hands away from his ears and slowly opened his eyes. 

There in front of him, he saw the person. 

He gasped and fell back against the tree roots. Nowhere to run. Nowhere left to hide. He was going to die if this one wanted to harm him. But the person didn’t move. He just sat there, a few safe paces away. Blinking beneath a mop of dark yellow hair. Mouth open. 

And then the person sneezed. 

* * * * *

Bilbo Baggins quickly blew his nose into his handkerchief before returning the embroidered cloth to his jacket pocket. He sniffed sharply at the sudden flare of his allergies. His nostrils still tingled, but at least he’d managed to suppress the second sneeze. 

He now stared at the strange little boy cowering within the tree well. 

Whatever was he going to do now? 

He’d had his nose buried in a book when he’d rounded the corner in the path and had run headlong into the strange boy. They’d both cried out in surprise. As Bilbo had stumbled back, his book had flown from his hand and straight into a flower pot in Auntie Took’s garden. 

But he’d only been half as startled as the stranger. The wild, tiny person had screamed in terror and had sprinted away into the woods. 

Bilbo Baggins was just a lad of nineteen, and he had never thought of himself as particularly dreadful. But apparently, he was. Just whatever had made him so frightening, he’d had no idea. And whenever he had no idea about something, his curiosity always seemed to get the best of him. 

It always got him into trouble. 

“You little fool, Bilbo Baggins!” he’d muttered to himself. He’d been torn as to whether to follow the boy or go after his book. “Oh dear, oh dear! Whatever shall I do?” 

He’d started for the book, then after the boy, then for the book once more. And then finally, with a cry of frustration, he’d scooped up the book and had run after the little child, pages flapping in the wind. 

He’d followed the boy into the woods, calling out for him. That particular patch of forest was rather small, and eventually, Bilbo had found him. But now that he had, he was absolutely unsure of what on earth to do next. 

He had never seen a child as wild or frightened as this one. The boy was filthy, clothed only in tattered rags. His long yellow hair was a near dreadlocked snarl of tangles. Two little brown and yellow birds hopped about on his frail shoulder as if he were one of them. A bird trapped in the body of a boy, a child of a race of people that was not readily apparent. 

The little boy was not a hobbit. Absolutely not. Bilbo did not know what type of creature this child was. He was small like a halfling child, too small to be a man or an elf. But despite the soft dusting of hair upon his bony cheeks and chest, there was next to none on the tops of his heavy, calloused feet. There was only one possibility, Bilbo realized. 

His jaw dropped. 

Whatever was a dwarf child doing here in The Shire? 

Eventually, Bilbo got hold of himself and managed to close his gaping mouth. 

“I – I… I’m not going to hurt you,” he spluttered. “Can you speak?” 

The dwarf boy said nothing. He just stared wide-eyed at Bilbo, big eyes still full of fear. 

“I promise, you’re safe here. Do you have a name?” 

At that, the little boy blinked. He furrowed his brow as if confused. 

“Who?” he asked. Then he gulped, still frightened. But he did not break contact with Bilbo’s curious gaze. 

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” Bilbo pressed a hand to his chest above the waistcoat as he introduced himself. “Who are you?” 

The boy’s frown deepened and his blue eyes fell to the forest floor. Darting about as if searching for answers to Bilbo’s very simple question. 

Bilbo realized then that the boy might not know his own name. Surely, he had to have one, didn’t he? But then, Bilbo knew nothing about dwarvish children. He hadn’t even known they’d _had_ children. He’d always heard that dwarves just sprung up from holes in the earth, wholly formed as hairy adults and as stubborn as old draft mules. 

But clearly, dwarves did have children. One now was cowering in front of him. And whether or not the child had a name did not change the following fact: The child was next to helpless. The little boy was not a creature of the woods. He was a dwarf, not a wild animal. 

Whatever had happened to this child? 

Bilbo had to do something. Anything. He would never forgive himself if he did not help this boy. 

The first thing that popped into his mind was food. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked. He remembered his late morning secondsies, stowed away in his satchel. “Would you like a sandwich?” 

He reached into his bag and pulled out the cucumber sandwich, made with Mother’s home-baked bread and wrapped in a checkered cloth. Tentatively, he held it out to the boy. When the child stared at his hand, then back at him again without taking, Bilbo set the sandwich on the ground between them. Then he scooted back. 

“Please, take it. You’re so very thin!” 

The little boy snatched up the sandwich. He ripped the cloth from it and tossed the wrapping away. He stuffed the food down, chewing furiously, mouth closed. The pair of chirping birds on his shoulder darted down to his wrists and pecked at the bread as he ate. When he’d finished the sandwich, he held his palms up until the birds finished cleaning away the crumbs. 

Then he held out his hand for more. All fear was gone from his eyes. 

“Oh dear!” Bilbo said. “That’s all the food I had. Oh, but, but…” 

He remembered his waterskin. He pulled that too from his satchel and handed it to the boy, who popped the cork and poured the water into his mouth. The child emptied the skin and tossed it back to Bilbo. Then the boy held out his hand again, wide blue eyes silently pleading. 

“More?” 

“Um… Um…” Bilbo had nothing left to give. But the boy wanted – and needed – far more. “Oh, my goodness! Oh, no!” 

Bilbo’s mind was suddenly awash with every warning he’d ever had from Father about feeding the strays. 

“Don’t you dare give bacon to those puppies, Bilbo Baggins!” Father had harrumphed over his pipe. “Once you feed them, they’ll never stop coming back for more! Then once they stop being puppies and turn into full-grown dogs, Bag End will be absolutely crawling with the wild things. Good gracious me, son. You know you’ve got allergies.” 

At the memory, Bilbo sneezed again. 

He spluttered and honked a second time into his handkerchief. 

Perhaps he was allergic to dwarf as well as to dog. But just like he couldn’t stop himself from feeding the little puppies, he couldn’t seem to shake the desire to also feed the child. And just as the garden at Bag End was now teeming with happy fat dogs, now it seemed he’d probably be adding a dwarf and two birds to his menagerie. 

“Oh, dear me!” cried Bilbo. Whatever would Father say? He would be furious. “Good gracious, I’m in trouble!” 

The little dwarf cocked his head, now curious. Something had changed in his eyes. 

“I’m not mean,” he said in a soft little voice. 

”Oh!” Bilbo exclaimed. So indeed, the boy could speak! All worries were dashed from Bilbo’s mind. “You should come home with me,” he said, growing excited. “Father and Mother would be thrilled to look after you for a while. At least, I think so. I hope. Well, Mother certainly. But if she likes you, Father will come around.” 

“Do you have a brother?” 

Bilbo frowned at that. He shook his head. “No,” he admitted. It was rare for a hobbit to not have many siblings. But he was the only one, for Mother could not have had more. “I’m the only child.” 

The little dwarf child dropped his eyes to the forest floor. His birds gave a few soft murmurs as he traced a filthy finger through the soil. 

“Me too,” he whispered. Then his eyes drifted closed. “Alone.” 

“Oh, dear… Dear me! I’m so sorry!” Bilbo felt his heart break inside him. He reached for the orphan and took up the stubby little dwarf hand within his own. 

At the touch, the boy jerked his gaze up to Bilbo. Mouth open, eyes wide. 

Then suddenly without warning, the little boy leapt to his feet and crashed straight into Bilbo. 

Bilbo gave a startled cry as the dwarf wrapped his arms around Bilbo’s middle. He gasped as the little boy squeezed him tightly, crushingly strong despite his tiny size and the apparent illusion of his frailty. 

“Ouch, ouch! You’re hurting me!” Bilbo cried. “Easy, now!” 

The boy eased up, but he didn’t let go. His birds hopped about on his shoulders, chirping wildly. 

Bilbo had no idea what to do. He’d never even seen a dwarf before, much less a child. Much less one covered in birds. Much less one who seemed to be counter to everything he’d ever heard about that gruff, surly, and stone-bound race of hairy people. But dwarf or otherwise, the child was an orphan. He needed care, and though Bilbo didn’t know precisely what to do, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could help the little boy. 

He closed his arms around the child. He pressed one hand to the back of the tangles and the other to the hollow between the jutting shoulder blades. 

”I’ll be your friend, if you like,” he said. “There, there.” 

He didn’t know how long he held the boy there on the forest floor. But when they finally parted, he felt like he had done something so needed, so good for the little dwarf. When the boy let him go, he kept hold of Bilbo’s hand. 

Then at last, the boy smiled. 

“Fili,” he said. “My name is Fili.”


	6. Belladonna

Fili held Bilbo’s hand but he didn’t get up out of the tree well. His birdies sat on his shoulder, chirping a little to one another. They were hungry. Even now, after the sandwich, Fili was hungry too. 

“If I be your friend,” he said to Bilbo, “may I please have more food?” 

Bilbo’s eyes went wide and his mouth fell open. 

“Of course you may!” said Bilbo, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t let you go hungry.” 

“Can I keep my bird friends?” 

“You can keep them, I think,” Bilbo said. “But we’re not going to be living outdoors anymore. We’ll be inside. You’ll have to clean up after them if they, well, if they…” 

“Poop?” 

Bilbo blushed deeply. “Yes, that.” He cleared his throat and wiped his nose into his handkerchief. “Well, we’ll be living in a hobbit hole. We like to keep it clean and comfy.” 

Fili furrowed his brow. “What’s a hobbit hole?” 

“It’s where I live,” Bilbo said. “It’s a hole in the ground. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, but a nice one. Lots of wood paneling, a big pantry. A little garden out front. Oh, and I got to choose the color of the door. We just had it painted last week.” 

“I lived in a hole in the ground once,” Fili said. “I lived with a badger. He was dead, though.” 

Bilbo blinked. He turned a little green. Then he swallowed before stammering, “Um, well, hobbit holes don’t have… dead things… in them. Hobbit holes are wonderful. You’ll like it, I think.” 

“Are there other people in hobbit holes?” 

“Well, yes. There are hobbitses.” 

“What’s a hobbitses?” 

“You don’t know?” 

Fili shook his head. His birdies chirped, also curious. 

“I’m a hobbit.” Bilbo scratched a hand through his funny-looking dark yellow hair. “I live here in The Shire. With other people like me. Other hobbitses.” 

“Oh.” Fili pulled his hand away. He closed his arms in around his chest. It always felt good to hug himself when he was nervous. “Are other hobbitses nice like you, or are they mean?” 

Bilbo frowned a little. He looked almost sad. “They’re very nice,” he said. “Well, except my aunt Camellia. She stole one of Mum’s necklaces once, lost it in the river, and then tried to hide the fact that she’d stolen it in the first place. She’s not so nice. But she lives in Hardbottle, so you won’t have to see her much.” 

“And your mama?” 

“Her name's Belladonna. She’s wonderful,” Bilbo said with a smile. “She’s my favorite hobbit in the world. You’ll see.” Bilbo’s smile had returned. He stood. He extended a hand to Fili once again. “Come on, let’s go meet her.” 

Fili frowned. “I don’t want to go,” he said, shaking his head. “I want to stay in the woods.” 

“Are you scared?” 

Fili said nothing. Maybe he was scared, but he didn’t know quite why. Maybe he just didn’t want to meet other hobbitses. Hobbitses were people, and though Fili didn’t think he was a hobbit, he still knew he was some kind of person deep down beneath the baby bird skin. He didn’t want to be around other people. They could be so very mean. Even hobbitses sometimes stole things, and that was mean. That right there was the reason for why he was so scared. 

One of his birdies chirped at him. _We’re not scared,_ the bird said, insistent. 

_We’re hungry,_ said the second. _More food, please._

“Can we wait until nightfall?" Fili asked. "When no one will see us?” 

“Oh dear, I can’t stay out that late!” Bilbo blanched. “Father will be so angry with me if I’m not home for supper.” 

At the mention of supper, Fili’s stomach gave a loud and audible growl. He rubbed it. It hurt from the sandwich that Bilbo had given him, but somehow he still wanted more. 

“Can we please have food if we go right now?” 

“Of course we can,” Bilbo said. But he looked sad all over again. 

Fili dropped his eyes to the ground. Maybe Bilbo didn’t like food all that much, he thought. Maybe hobbitses didn’t like food very much at all. Maybe that was why Bilbo had given him the sandwich – so that he hadn’t needed to eat it. After all, it had given Fili a belly ache. He hugged himself all the tighter. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. 

“Oh, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for!” Bilbo took up Fili’s hand once more. His fingers were soft and very warm. They felt good to hold on to. “Come on, let’s go. I promise, everything’s going to be all right now. You’re safe, Fili. It’s okay.” 

“Okay.” 

And so, Fili got up out of the tree well. He let Bilbo lead him out of the woods. 

When they came back down to the little cobblestone path between the hillsides, Fili looked about, worried. In the distance, he could see other hobbitses going about their business. His heart thumped under his ribcage and he drew closer to Bilbo’s side, but none of the far-off hobbitses seemed to notice them. 

As they walked, his birdies became increasingly noisy. They weren’t afraid. They were hungry. They were getting angry, too, that they’d gone a whole ten minutes without Fili giving them food. And so, because they were still too little to take care of themselves just yet, Fili tried his very, very best not to be scared at all. 

It took them a long time to get to their destination. But that was okay. Fili was used to lots of walking. On the winding cobblestone paths, they encountered no one else. And when they reached their journey’s end, Fili soon discovered that he hadn’t needed to be frightened after all. 

The hillside they came to was at the top of a winding path. There was a little round thing that stuck up from behind a fence, and Bilbo opened it up and peeked into it before he swung open the gate. Then they went inside, into a small garden filled with flowers. 

As they came into the garden, they were greeted by a pair of rather round animals that looked something like small wolves. They couldn’t be wolves, though, Fili knew. Wolves had pointy ears instead of floppy ones. Wolves had big, fluffy grey coats instead of sleek black and brown and white ones. And wolves weren’t ever shaped like barrels, but these two creatures looked rather like loaves of bread with legs. 

Fili stifled a giggle at the funny looking wolves. He extended a hand to one of them. The floppy-eared creature stuck its wet little nose into Fili’s hand, sniffing furiously. 

“That’s Rosie,” Bilbo said. “The other one is Finch. Father won’t let me bring them inside except at night or when the weather’s bad. But that’s okay, because they like the garden as much as I do.” 

“What are they?” 

“They’re beagle dogs.” 

“Beagle dogs,” Fili gasped. As if in response, Rosie flopped down onto her back and exposed her fat belly for a rub. When Fili obliged her, she wagged her tail happily. Then Fili said, “I like beagle dogs.” 

“Me too,” said Bilbo. He started up the garden steps towards the big green circle in the hillside. “Come on, we can come back and see them later.” 

“Okay,” Fili said. 

He was sad to leave the beagle dogs outside, but when Rosie padded over to Finch, circled thrice upon the grass, and curled up beside her friend, Fili didn’t have a reason to be so sad anymore. The beagle dogs had each other, and that was all they needed.

And so, Fili found himself being happy, and he let Bilbo lead him through the big green circle and into the hobbit hole. 

* * * * * 

Belladonna blew the sawdust off the top of the bookcase and she leaned back away from her workbench for just a moment, admiring her handiwork. The beveled edges of the corners were flawless. The seams between the oaken panels were tight and uniform. Her father had taught her well. She knew that this gift to her son would be in the Baggins family for generations. She went back to her sanding and listened to the soothing rhythm of the grit upon the tight and beautiful grain. It was a gentle sound, and a relaxing one.

Every Saturday morning, the carpentry masked the comings and goings of Bungo and Bilbo in their home beyond the workshop door. These were her mornings, the Saturdays. For six whole hours every weekend, it was just her and her woodworking. Bless the gentle fellows in her life, for letting her have her peace. They could take care of themselves for six hours each week without getting into too much trouble. This was her time, her special time. And absolutely, under no circumstances, was Belladonna Took to be disturbed while at her woodwork.

Thus, it came as quite the shock when she heard the rap of knuckles upon the door. 

“Mother?” 

It was Bilbo. 

“Dear me, Bilbo!” Belladonna threw her sand paper down on the workbench and planted her fists on her hips. “It can’t wait two more hours?” 

“Can I have your help?” Bilbo’s muffled voice sounded rather worried. “Please?” 

That gave her pause. She muttered a small curse under her breath, then marched to a cabinet and pulled out a tarp and threw the heavy canvas over her project. It would do no good to have her son barging into the workshop only to see his birthday present before she’d gotten it varnished. 

Once the bookcase was covered, she wiped the sawdust from her hands onto her apron and marched to the door. A bit more flustered than she’d intended, perhaps. But by goodness, Bilbo had better have a very important reason for interrupting her during her free time. 

When she opened the workshop door, she saw her son standing there in the hallway. His attention was turned down the hall to the left, but the moment she opened the door he glanced up at her, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He sniffed and rubbed his nose, at a loss of things to say. 

“Bilbo,” she said in her sternest Mother voice as she folded her arms in front of her. “This had better be very, very important.” 

“I know, Mum. I’m sorry. But, but…” He gave a little start and turned to stare back down the hallway. Then he beckoned to someone down the hall. “Come on, now. She’s very nice.” 

Belladonna craned her neck out of the doorway. Some distance away, there was someone rather small hiding in a shadowy corner of the hallway. She could barely see the person peeking out from behind a pillar. Then the little person darted back into the concealing shadows, fully out of sight. 

She put her hands on her hips and frowned at Bilbo. 

“And who is that, Bilbo Baggins?” She demanded. 

Bilbo blushed a little. Then he said, “I’m sorry, Mum. He’s very shy.” He turned and went down the hall, towards the hidden person. When he drew near to the stranger, he held out his hand and extended it into the shadows. “Come on, Fili. Come out. I promise, she won’t hurt you.” 

Belladonna’s eyes went wide as the person took Bilbo’s hand and came out of the shadows. Her hand flew to her mouth and her heart gave a jump in her chest. 

“Oh, my!” She exclaimed. “You poor thing!” 

All her frustration immediately evaporated as she caught sight of the child. The little boy was shrouded in shadows, but she could already tell that he was starved near to death and absolutely filthy. She dropped to her knees and outstretched her arms for him. 

“Come here, child! Let me help you!” 

The boy clung tightly to Bilbo’s side as the two children approached her. As they came out of the shadows, Belladonna’s heart leapt once more as she gained a better sight of the lost child. 

He was a dwarfling; that much she knew. But beyond that, she could only speculate. He was most likely from the Blue Mountains to the north, and by the haggardness of his appearance, he’d been living on his own in the wild for months. She could not tell his age. Had he been a hobbit, he could have been anywhere from ten to twenty – or adjusting for his kind, twenty-five to fifty. A closer look at him told her that he had once been wealthy. The muddy rags that hung from his bones were tatters of velvet and silk. Amidst the leaves and twigs were two golden clasps dreadlocked into his braids. A pair of birds had taken up residence upon his shoulders, peeping softly.

Lost creatures without their mothers, all three. That struck something deep within her. 

“Come here, darling,” she said as gently as she could. “Let’s get you cleaned up and get some food in you. Come, come!” 

The little boy let go of Bilbo’s hand and collapsed against her. She squeezed him tightly and made to pick him up, but he was somehow like a dense little brick in her arms despite his thinness, and she couldn’t hoist him much higher than an inch or two off the floor. 

“Come now,” she said with the boy still cradled in her arms. “Here, if you let me go, we can go into the dining room.” 

The little boy stubbornly clung onto her, and she didn’t have it in her to try to push him away. She looked up at Bilbo, who was watching with concern. 

“Bilbo, could you get something for him? Anything. Cheese, applesauce, pease and carrots, and – oh!” She pulled back just enough to look the child in the eye. “Is there anything you like? Maybe we have it.” 

He blinked and stared at her. Then he said almost inaudibly, “Please, I’d just like a hug.” 

“Oh, my goodness!” She squeezed him all the closer and pressed a kiss to his dirty, hollow cheek. He was so very thin, and he felt almost crushable in her arms. But she knew a thing or two about dwarves, and one thing she knew was that if he wanted to, he could break her bones at a whim. Though hobbitses and dwarves were so very different, one thing was for certain. All children everywhere, no matter their race or their kind, needed love above all things. And that was just the truth. 

It felt like she could hold this child forever if she needed to. Of course, that’d be impossible, but it still was so good to give him love after he’d been without it for however long. 

“Did Bilbo say your name was Fili?” she murmured. He nodded against her. His birds peeped as if in agreement. “That’s a wonderful name, Fili. Can you tell me how old you are?” 

He was silent for a long while. “I don’t remember,” he said at last. 

“Oh, Fili…” She felt the tears welling up in her eyes. “Whatever happened to you? Where’s your family?” 

“I don’t have a family,” Fili whispered. 

Belladonna could no longer hold back. The tears spilled over and she wept softly for the child. 

“Dear me,” she cried. No wonder her people loved their little rivers and their quiet meadows. The world beyond The Shire was so very full of hurt, and for gentle folk like hobbitses and some dwarvish children, it seemed, it could be a hardening place indeed. That cruelty seemed so very unnecessary. And so before she could stop to think of the consequences, she said to the little boy, “You can be part of our family now.” 

Fili neither said a thing nor let her go. But he pulled himself out of the hug just enough to look her in the eye. A shy smile had spread over his features. His little birds chirped in assent as he nodded. Then he buried his face once again in the soft cotton of her dress. 

As she cradled the dwarfling in her arms, she caught Bilbo coming back into the hall from the pantry. Bilbo set a few plates of food on the floor beside her and Fili. Then he took up a seat next to them on the tiles as he gave her a gentle grin. She couldn’t help but think of him and his beagle puppies. _Like mother like son,_ she thought. She laughed softly and gave her boy a mischievous wink. 

“Poor Bungo,” she said under her breath, only to herself. He’d really done all the Bagginses in on the day he’d married a Took.


	7. The Jumping Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The Jumping Game_ short story contained herein is a shameless 21 st century revision of the Hans Christian Andersen tale, _The Jumping Competition._

Late that afternoon, Belladonna stood in the doorway to Bilbo’s room, watching over the two blond children. She stifled a yawn and rubbed the tiredness from her eyes. What an unexpected adventure and ordeal that her Saturday had turned out to be. But now, as she saw the dwarfling boy and her own son behaving as if they were kin, she couldn’t help but feel that she’d truly done the right thing. 

It would not be easy, raising this dwarvish child. Fili was not a hobbit. The day’s events had reminded her that he was a far rougher creature by his own nature. But that was neither his fault nor any reason to love him less. He needed her help, that child, and badly. It had become so very obvious over the course of that first afternoon. 

After she’d finally been able to get Fili to stop hugging her for long enough to eat, he’d ravenously wolfed down every piece of food they’d brought him. At the end, his belly had swollen up and he’d made himself sick to his stomach. He hadn’t complained in the least, but he’d laid himself down with his head in Belladonna’s lap, wearing a silent, uncomfortable expression until he’d eventually recovered from the gorging. Then afterwards, he’d stubbornly refused to let Belladonna out of his grasp, whether that be holding her hand or sitting in her lap or leaning up against her, with her soft arm curled about his thin and wasted middle. 

He’d been awfully quiet, too. Though he spoke very clearly and politely, he didn’t say much, and only when spoken to first. Throughout the day, she’d gained the sense that this boy had never learned to simply go out and get what he wanted. She’d had to watch him closely for signs of just what he needed. 

What he seemed to want and need above all else was touch. Just touch. Just the simple feel of hands upon his skin, or the press of his little body up against her own. Food and water, yes, but even of those things he had soon had his fill. But touch – now, that was something he couldn’t seem to get enough of. Especially her touch. She could not seem to extract herself from him for even a moment, and every time she tried, he just clung more tightly to her. 

At first, she’d thought he’d simply gone for months without physical contact, but as the hours had passed, she’d learned it was far more serious than that. The first sign of trouble came in mid-afternoon, when she’d proposed to clean the wild from his body. 

“I cannot imagine you’re very comfortable,” she’d said, “You’re just covered in brown mud and clothed in nothing but old rags.” 

Fili had been curled up with his head in her lap, knees drawn to his chest. His two little birds had hopped about between their perch on his shoulders and the hallway floor. Explorers, those two. But they never strayed far from home. 

“Sweet child.” She gently ran her fingers through his golden hair. Her digits kept catching on the snarls. It was such a pretty golden color under all the filth and dead leaves, and she hated to see it ruined. “Your hair’s so full of tangles. We may need to cut them out.” 

At that, Fili gave a sudden ear-splitting howl. He jerked out of Belladonna’s lap and scrambled away as quickly as he could. Terrified, he ran straight into Bilbo’s arms and there he descended into a wail so full of terror that she might as well have drenched him in lye. 

“Whatever is the matter!?” Belladonna reached for Fili. At that, he only screamed louder. He clung to Bilbo fiercely. 

“Ouch!” Bilbo gave a yelp of pain and tried to push Fili away. “Ouch, Fili! Stop!” 

But Fili didn’t stop. He refused to let Bilbo go. 

Belladonna immediately grabbed the dwarf child and pried his arms off her son. At her intervention, Fili let go, but he spun on her and shoved her back. Fili was frighteningly strong for his small size. Belladonna lost her footing and cried out in pain when her bottom hit hard upon the floor. It hurt, but not so badly that she couldn’t recover quickly. She managed to look up just in time to see Fili disappear through the kitchen and into the pantry. 

“Mum!” Bilbo rushed to Belladonna, coughing. He helped her to her feet and swept her into a hug once she was upright. Bilbo was horrified. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know!” 

“It’s fine, son,” she said, a bit shaken herself. She embraced Bilbo, careful not to touch him where Fili had squeezed him too hard. She kissed his forehead. He was slightly sweaty beneath her lips. “It’s not your fault.” 

She held onto Bilbo until her own discomfort had passed. Then she let him go and he pulled away. The hug had done both of them well. She exhaled a long breath, massaged her sore bum for a moment, and then looked past her son into the kitchen where the strange boy was hiding. She glanced again at Bilbo. 

“Stay here for a moment?” 

When Bilbo nodded warily at her, she steeled herself for her next move, quickly devising her strategy. 

Belladonna crept quietly towards the kitchen. Once inside, she stepped deftly around the table and peeked into the pantry. There, Fili had hidden behind a massive stack of cheese wheels. He had cradled his knees to his chest. He was weeping softly, rocking to and fro as he tried to comfort himself. 

“Fili?” 

At the sound of his name, he looked up, eyes still wild with fear. 

“I am sorry that I frightened you,” Belladonna said. “May I please come in?” 

Fili scowled at her. He shook his head furiously. 

“Go away.” 

“Well, all right. But I’m a little shook up myself, so I’m just going to have a cup of chamomile out here in the kitchen. But if you don't mind, I have to get my tea leaves first.” She pointed up at the crate of teas on a shelf and tiptoed ever so slowly into the pantry. “I’ll just get them and leave. But if there’s anything you think you might need, you’ll know exactly where I am. Does that sound all right?” 

Fili said nothing. He dropped his eyes to the floor and glared angrily at a clod of dirt he’d tracked into the pantry. His birds hopped about indignantly at what had just happened. Then one of them picked up on the fact that Fili was situated mere inches from a massive loaf of rosemary potato bread. The bird peeped noisily. It hopped up onto the shelf and pecked at the bread, all grumpiness forgotten. 

Belladonna couldn’t help but snicker at the sight of the adorable, grouchy baby birds hiding away in her pantry. 

“It looks like your little friend wants some food,” she said to Fili, hiding her growing smile behind her hand. She quickly grabbed the bag of chamomile and slipped back into the kitchen. Then she called to Fili, “You can give them a piece of that rosemary bread. That one seems to like it.” 

At that, Fili glanced up and looked at his bird. All the anger had drained from his face. He was now staring open-mouthed at the peeping yellow warbler. 

Belladonna quickly spun in order to hide her grin. He could handle himself for a moment. And whenever Fili, like the bird, remembered what he really needed, he might come out looking for it. Then she would be waiting. 

She set the kettle on and sat down at the table. She twiddled her thumbs as she waited patiently, and soon enough, the kettle began to sing. She got up, took the kettle off and set it aside. She filled her teapot with chamomile, grabbed some biscuits, and finally poured the slightly cooled water over the leaves. Then she set the tea tray on the table and took up her seat again. 

“Bilbo,” she called into the hallway as she poured three cups of tea. “Come join me! Oh, and bring me the old Bagginses storybook, if you don’t mind. The one with all the pictures.” 

Once her son had joined her in the kitchen, she took the book from his hands and set it out upon the table. Bilbo watched her curiously as she flipped through the old pages, past the plates with their black ink drawings of emperors, silver queens, dancing eggs, talking beetles, and other things too numerous and fanciful to account for all at once. 

“Ah!” She exclaimed once she’d found the perfect story. _“The Jumping Game._ Do you remember this one, Bilbo?” 

“Is that the one with the grasshopper and the flea?” 

“Yes, and the jumping jack, too.” She smoothed out the old, worn pages that followed the drawing on the cover plate. “Will you read it to me?” 

“Aw, Mum!” Bilbo frowned up at her. “Those are children’s stories! I’m too old for them!” 

“Says who?” Belladonna crossed her arms. She cocked her head towards the pantry and arched her eyebrow at her son. “I like this story, Bilbo Baggins, and I am older than you. Are you telling your Mum that she’s an old lady who needs to act her age?” When Bilbo didn’t answer, she said, “Oh, that is quite harsh, my boy. This is a story for boys and girls of all ages. Don’t you agree?” 

At her wink, Bilbo’s mouth formed into a silent _Ohhhh!_ as he understood what she was doing. He stammered a little, not quite as skilled at deception as Belladonna was, but eventually he managed to play along quite admirably. “Ah, ah – oh, of course, Mum! Actually, this is a wonderful story. I _love_ this story! It’s one of the best in the book.” 

And so, Bilbo took the book from Belladonna’s hands and cleared his throat. As he began to read Belladonna wrapped an arm over her son's shoulders. She closed her eyes, sipped at her soothing tea, and listened to the tale. 

* * * * * 

Once upon a time, there was a flea, a grasshopper, and a jumping jack. All three had been renowned throughout The Shire for their talents in jumping so very high. And so one day, they decided to hold a game to see who could jump the highest. They invited every hobbit in The Shire to come and see their game. And each of the jumpers believed wholeheartedly that they should be the winner. 

“This isn’t merely a game, it is a competition!” cried the wealthy, Old Mister Brandybuck. “And as such, it deserves a prize! I shall reward the winner with a lifetime supply of cakes of the best kind that The Shire can offer. Honor is too paltry a reward for a jumping competition!” 

The flea, excited from her adventures where she had been nipping at the blood of men, eagerly stepped forward. She immediately jumped so very high into the air that no one saw just how high she had flown. And thus, when she had landed, even though she said she had jumped, all the many hobbitses assumed she had not jumped at all. 

“Cheater!” The hobbitses bellowed. “You didn’t even jump!” 

“That is most unfair!” cried the flea. “I did jump! I jumped so very high, indeed.” 

“Well, even if you did,” cried one hobbit, “You have been feasting on the blood of men! That is an unfair advantage, otherwise known as cheating!” 

“I am a flea,” cried the bug, “I drink blood. That is how I eat! But alas, you accuse me of cheating just for being me. I suppose I might have to bite you for my next meal, for you were so very mean to me.” 

For the time being, the flea’s belly was still full. She had no need to bite another just yet. But she had been wounded by the insult, and so she crept away into her hiding hole, where she cried all by herself. 

“I will jump the highest, and I will make music while I do it,” boasted the grasshopper once the flea had gone. “I shall play my beautiful violin even as I sail through the air, and I will impress you with my talents and my ability to do all things at once.” 

And so, the grasshopper took his turn. He jumped very high indeed. But because he was playing his violin while he was jumping, he jumped off-course and flew straight into Old Mister Brandybuck’s beer. 

“Bah!” cried Old Mister Brandybuck. He fished out the grasshopper and plopped him down into the grass. “You are sorely mistaken if you think you will win a competition by jumping into my beer! Silly, misguided grasshopper!” 

The grasshopper, having been chastised, sat down in a ditch and grumped. He played a tragic tune on the world’s tiniest violin, for he felt so sorry for himself. But no one could hear him anymore, for he had gone off on his own. 

Then the jumping jack finally had her turn. She was neither a pretty or impressive thing, for she made of a goose bone and a little stick of pin oak, and she was held together with beeswax that might melt in the noonday sun. She did not say a word, either. She just sat there for a moment in thought. All the hobbitses watched her closely. They wondered what she would do. Whenever would she jump? 

Then finally, she made her move. 

She did not jump high or far, but she jumped precisely where she had intended to: Straight into a chocolate cake that was the first of a lifetime’s supply. 

“Aha!” cried Old Mister Brandybuck. He applauded the jumping jack’s wit. “Wonderful show! The jumping jack knew just what she wanted, and she jumped straight for it! I hereby declare the jumping jack the winner. The jumping jack shall have the prize, and she may eat cake on my dime for all of her days to come.” 

At last, the jumping jack spoke. 

“Thank you, Old Mister Brandybuck, for such a generous reward! But you say, it is a lifetime supply?” 

“Why, yes,” said Old Mister Brandybuck, “And because it is yours, you may do with it what you wish.” 

“Well, a lifetime supply of cakes is far too much for one jumping jack. I fear I might not be able to jump anymore if I should eat all those tasty things by myself. But I should very much like to share them with my friends – the grasshopper, who plays such pretty music, and the flea, who is so full of stories of the world beyond The Shire.” 

“I had not thought of that,” Old Mister Brandybuck exclaimed. He smiled broadly. “What a clever jumping jack! You truly are worthy of honor as well as just cakes.” 

“Honor is the highest prize of all,” said the jumping jack. “I would take having honor above all the cakes in the world.” 

And so, the jumping jack, knowing just what she wanted, went and found the flea in her hiding hole and the grasshopper down in his ditch. She invited her friends to her table. And there, together, they all ate cake until their years were done. 

* * * * * 

When Bilbo finished, Belladonna opened her eyes and fixed them on her son. He grinned back at her and closed the book. She took a sip of her tea. She found that it had gone somewhat tepid, but that was all right. Some teas were lovely when cold. 

She heard the soft bird peep from the pantry, and so she turned and looked. There was Fili, standing in the doorway. He had a chunk of rosemary bread in his hand. His birds were pecking freely at the food. His eyes were fixed on Belladonna and Bilbo, and the fear was leaving him. 

Belladonna gave him a little smile and she patted the open spot on the bench beside her. He shyly came out of the pantry and clambered up into the seat. There, he cuddled up under her arm, and she couldn’t help but give the child a tender, little squeeze. 

“You see?” She kissed his tangles and pulled a leaf out of the snarls. “You just have to go looking for what you want. It’s usually not as scary as you think.” 

“May I please see the book?” 

“Of course you may,” she said. She flipped through the pages to the story they’d just read and she pressed the book into Fili’s hands. “This is the one.” 

He flipped through the three or four pages of the story and then back to the cover plate. He stopped on the image and for a long while, he fixed all of his attention upon the picture. He ran his stubby fingers over the ink drawing of the flea, the grasshopper, and the jumping jack. All three were sitting around a table, happily tucking into a huge pile of cakes. 

Fili looked up at Belladonna, wide-eyed. Then he asked, “Why isn’t there any color?” 

“Do you think there needs to be?” 

“Color makes things look nice,” Fili said. “At least, I think so.” 

“Well then, maybe you should color the picture.” 

Fili gasped audibly. “Really?” 

“Mum!” Bilbo spluttered on his tea. “That’s Great-Great Grandfather’s book!” 

“Well, now…” Belladonna looked at her son as sternly as she could, but she couldn’t quite get the muscles around the corner of her mouth to stop twitching. “Maybe it’s time we updated it a bit. Added a bit of color. We can do it as a family.” Then she beamed in earnest. “What do you think, Fili? Would you like that?” 

Fili nodded furiously. 

“Bilbo?” 

Bilbo scratched his head skeptically. “I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s been in the family for years.” 

“Come now, Bilbo. It’s a children’s book. It’s full of silly things already. What harm’s a little bit of color going to do to its beautiful stories?” 

“Well…” Bilbo gave a sniffle and he reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. Belladonna’s elegant embroidery was stained and somewhat frayed after his bouts with allergies. He honked into it. Then he made to put it away, but for a moment, he paused and stared at the fabric. Finally, he gave a sigh and he put the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Well, all right," he said at last. 

“Then that’s settled!” Belladonna clapped her son on the shoulder. She gently pulled the book from Fili’s hands, closed it, and placed it on the kitchen table as she regarded Fili with a gentle smile. “We’ll come back and color the picture later. But first, you’re getting a bath. You might smudge the colors if your fingers are dirty, and I don’t think you’d want that to happen.” 

At the mention of the bath, Fili’s smile faded. He suddenly looked so very sad. He dropped his eyes to his hands. 

“Whatever is the matter, Fili? You can tell me what’s troubling you, child.” 

“Please don’t cut my hair,” he said, almost inaudibly. 

“It’s very tangled,” Belladonna explained. “I don’t know if I can get the snarls out without cutting it at least a little bit.” 

“But that hurts,” Fili whispered. “It bleeds when you cut it.” 

Belladonna gulped as a horrible image of a child bleeding from the head popped into her mind. She suddenly understood. She quickly focused her attention on Fili and his cheerfully peeping birds to help rid her mind of the most unpleasant thought. 

“No wonder you were so afraid!” She brushed a snarl out of his beautiful eyes. “Here, I’ll tell you what. We’ll do everything we can not to cut it, even if it takes a whole bottle of oil and all afternoon with a comb. We’ll get as many of the tangles out as we can. Not to worry. It’s just a problem that needs solving, nothing more.” 

“Can you promise it won’t hurt?” 

“I can’t promise that,” said Belladonna. A lump had grown in her throat, but she swallowed it down. “Some of the worst of the tangles may have to be cut after all. I don’t want to cause you any pain, but sometimes things have to hurt a little bit before they feel better. Do you understand?” 

“I think so.” 

“Will you let me know if I’m hurting you?” 

Fili sniffled softly and rubbed his little nose. Then he said very softly, “I suppose I can.” 

“Excellent.” She turned then to her son. “Bilbo, can you please take Fili to the bath and help him? I’ll be along in a moment, after I clean up in here.” 

Bilbo nodded. He hopped out of his seat and extended his hand to Fili. The littler child took the offered touch and let Bilbo lead him away towards the bath. As they went, Fili looked back over his shoulder, watching Belladonna until he and Bilbo disappeared around the hallway corner. 

Once they were gone, Belladonna cleaned up the tea. She went to the pantry and grabbed a big jug of wheat seed oil and a bar of scouring soap. Then she followed the children down the hall and into the bathroom, where she shut the door behind her. 

Bilbo was in the process of drawing a bath. Fili had already undressed himself, and he was folding his little rags as neatly as he could, given their condition. When he’d finished, he set his old clothing in a stack upon the wash table. Then he hugged his naked little body, and though he seemed so shy from his posture, Belladonna could tell by looking him in the eye that he was no longer afraid. 

Then without a word, he climbed into the half-full bathtub, followed by his faithful little birds. 

What might have been a simple, twenty minute bath session turned out to be an all-afternoon affair. The thick layers of grime were the easy part. Belladonna usually used the grease-cutting soap for scouring pots, but it seemed to work just as well for cleaning filthy dwarves. Though the harsh soap might have burned on a hobbit’s soft skin, dwarves were altogether tougher creatures. When Fili was finally clean, his skin was flush and glowing, abraded not a bit, and in excellent condition. 

But true to Belladonna’s prediction, the hair was much more of a challenge. She did her best to get the tangles out with copious amounts of oil and careful combing, but still, it took nearly two hours of going at it before she’d made significant progress. Fili had endured the painful process in silence, but by the time Belladonna had emptied the oil jug, soundless tears were coursing down his cheeks. Fortunately, by that point Belladonna had managed to comb out nearly all of the snarls. The only pieces that stubbornly remained were the two small, matted braids near his temples with their little golden clasps. As much as she’d tried to gently get the braids out, she’d come to realize that there was nothing to do for those dreadlocked clumps of hair. 

“I’m sorry, Fili, but I’m going to have to cut them.” She brushed her thumb over his sideburn. “I’ll make it as quick and painless as I can. Can you be brave?” 

Fili wiped his eyes. Then he swallowed fearfully, but finally he nodded. “Okay.” 

Without another word, Belladonna pulled the hair-trimming scissors from under the wash table. Then in two swift snips, she cut the dreadlocks loose. 

Fili gave a loud howl and his hands flew to the sides of his head where she had injured him. Blood seeped up from beneath his fingers and he began to tremble. 

Belladonna gasped. She immediately pulled him into her arms. She’d had no idea just how sensitive that part of a dwarf’s body was, and she felt terrible for having caused him the slightest amount of pain. But it had needed to be done. Only now, free of the dreadlocks, could the boy truly begin to heal. 

“Bilbo, go grab some rags, please.” 

“All right, Mum.” Bilbo sounded shaken, but he helped her just the same. 

Once Bilbo returned with the rags, Belladonna cleaned the damaged ends of Fili’s hair. The wounds turned out to be so tiny on the tips of each strand of hair that it would have been impossible to bandage them at all, even if they’d needed it. But they didn’t, for the bleeding soon stopped, and after a few minutes, Fili was fine. 

“Almost finished.” 

Belladonna shampooed the remaining oil from Fili’s hair, combed through the clean and beautiful tresses, and left his shining locks loose like waves of gold around his frail shoulders. Then she kissed his clean forehead and thought, _What a beautiful child._

Now that Belladonna could see Fili clearly without all the layers of dirt, she thought she’d only ever seen one boy in the world who was more handsome than Fili the dwarf. The first thing she noticed about Fili were his two little dimples. They weren’t deep, for he didn’t seem to have had a smiling past, but the dimples were there now, beneath the golden scruffiness. That little beard and Fili’s long, curling sideburns amused Belladonna to no end, for hobbit men were as smooth-faced as a baby’s bottom no matter what their age. Fili seemed to sense her cheerfulness, and as his grin grew wider, the joy spread up to his eyes. Though those lovely blue eyes were still rather wide and wanting, she could clearly see eagerness there. He was smart, though maybe that intellect was latent, but where there was a willingness to learn, there was a potential for brilliance. That gave her tremendous hope. 

She suddenly knew that wherever he had come from, his family had been so unaware of how precious he'd been when they’d lost him. _No matter,_ she thought. He was safe now. And by all that was good in the world, Belladonna was going to give him every opportunity possible to become the remarkable person that he could clearly be. 

She gestured for him to climb out of the bathtub. Once he was out, she wrapped him in a towel and leaned back on her heels as he dried himself. As he did so, he was mindful of his little birds and their perpetual presence upon his shoulders. Once he was finished, he stood modestly clutching the towel around his body, unsure of what to do next. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Better, thank you,” Fili said, still wholly without complaint. 

“Oh, you really are a sweet child!” Belladonna kissed him again before she climbed to her feet. She looked from one tow-headed boy to the other, and then she remarked to Fili, “You’re very much like Bilbo was when he was little. It’s quite touching.” 

That made both boys smile. 

“Bilbo, why don’t you take Fili and get him some clothes? I’ll clean up here. Then we can go and work on the pictures in the kitchen.” 

“All right, Mum,” Bilbo said, sounding a little weary. He stifled a rather noisy yawn before taking up Fili’s hand once more. “See you in a bit.” 

Once the children had disappeared into the hallway, Belladonna drained the murky water from the tub. She scrubbed the grime from the inside of the basin, cleaned up the puddles and the mud tracks all through the house, and finally, she took the neatly folded little rags of clothing and, not able to bear throwing them away just yet, dropped them into the wash pile along with her carpentry apron. 

“The work’s never, ever finished,” she muttered. Not that she minded so much, tiring as mothering could be at times. At least she still had the chance to do her carpentry. More than that, on the rare times when the whimsy took her, she could foist her husband and her son onto her relatives and run off on her own for a few days. A vagabond in her own way, right here at home in The Shire.

Smiling for the little freedoms that enriched her otherwise humble life, she went into her workshop. There, she pulled a well-worn cherrywood box filled with colored paints and brushes from her craft cabinet. She tucked the box under her arm. Then she touched her fingers to the tarp covering the unfinished bookcase, wondering just how those mothers with three, four, and more babies possibly handled it all. Somehow those brave women still managed to rear healthy, beautiful children. Somehow, somehow. She didn’t quite know how. 

From her workshop, she went straight into the kitchen. There, Belladonna set the box of paints on the table. Then she set about assembling a little feast of bacon, fried orange tomatoes, the unpecked half of the rosemary loaf, and three flagons of sweet birch beers. 

“Bilbo! Fili!” She sat and waited for them to join her. “Let’s get started!” 

Then she waited. And she waited. And after a while, she was still waiting for the boys to come to her. 

Only after she’d been sitting there by herself for a good several minutes did she begin to grow restless. She popped a rasher of bacon into her mouth and hauled herself up from the table, leaving the rest of the afternoon snack untouched and the storybook still closed beside the box of paints. 

She padded on down the hallway in search of the boys. Bilbo’s bedroom door was closed. She gently knocked and opened it without waiting for a reply. What she saw inside stopped her right in her tracks. 

Both boys were snuggled up together in the bed, sound asleep. Fili was wearing an oversized pair of Bilbo’s pajamas. His beautiful golden hair had been pulled back into a single damp braid to keep it from snarling again. He had set his towel from earlier down beside his pillow, and the two little birds had clustered together on the downy fabric. The fluffy creatures now dozed quietly in the nest formed by Fili’s arm and his chest. Bilbo was asleep at Fili’s back, snoring softly. The bigger boy had one arm tucked up beneath his own head, and the other draped loosely around the dwarfling’s middle. 

But for the difference in race, they might as well have been brothers. They _were_ brothers now, Belladonna realized. It hadn’t taken much at all to bring about the simple, tender image that she was now seeing. It had only taken kindness, a willingness to see past their bodily differences, and an acceptance of the minute variations in personhood that made all children beautiful in ways that were wholly their own. 

She smiled and wiped at her leaking eyes. Then she stifled another yawn and quietly closed the door. 

Now that the boys were asleep, Belladonna realized just how tired she herself was. She thought to go and clean up the mess in the kitchen, but that could wait for a while. Instead, she made her way to her parlor and took up a seat in Bungo’s armchair. There, she propped her feet upon a cushion, leaned back in the chair, and closed her eyes for a little nap of her own in the small moment of peace and quiet. 

As she began to doze, her mind wandered to the dwarf child now living in her home. Wherever he had come from and whomever he once had been no longer really mattered. He was an incredible little boy with obvious potential for greatness. To bring out that shining light, all he needed was love. 

That should have been reassuring, but somehow it was deeply troubling. 

She opened her eyes and frowned down at her time-worn hands. She wondered if they were really so different from the hands of Fili’s parents. At the thought of the dwarrows who had given Fili his life, Belladonna felt a sudden pang of deep and terrible sadness. 

Whoever had they been, Fili’s parents? Where had his mother been in all Fili’s many years? Had she died when he was young, leaving him to be raised by dwarvish warriors when he so clearly wanted and needed a gentler, kinder hand? Or had Fili’s mother simply been an unloving person? A cold and distant woman who by some pain of her own or some strange darkness of the mind had left her own son unloved? 

The questions were so disturbing that she wished she hadn’t even asked them. 

But then, she had one thought that was far worse than any other. 

She wished Fili’s parents were dead. 

Never in her life had Belladonna wished death upon another person. But she simply couldn’t imagine Fili’s poor family, especially his mother, living through such pain. No parent in the world, whether loving or harsh, hobbit or dwarf, or any other kind, race, or quality, should ever suffer so cruel a fate as the disappearance of their child. 

Though Fili yet lived, his people did not know it. He had been out in the wild for months, but he acted as though he’d been given up for dead long before he’d ever been lost in the woods. 

Belladonna closed her eyes and her tears began to fall. 

The thought of Fili’s mother had simply broken her heart.


	8. Lacrimosa

Only three times in her life had the princess ever been bedridden. This was the third and the longest. 

She prayed to none that it might be her last. Perhaps she would get through it and find her feet again. Perhaps she would drift away forever, wrapped in the shroud of bedclothes. Never to leave the soft and gentle twilight of the living grave. She prayed to none, for none had ever answered her prayers. Not even now. Especially now, after all these painful years. 

She went unheard by the makers for she was the second of her people. She, the afterthought. Just as no one heard the whisper after the bellow, no one heard the dwarrowdams after the cries of the first-made dwarrows. 

Her voice, quiet and singular as it was, had always gone unheard. 

Though she knew that she was unheard she could not help but pray. 

 

 

 

My son, my son.  
O, delicate child. My tender child. 

I feared to give you touch  
Lest my monstrous, calloused, unmotherly hands  
Break you in your frailty. 

I loved him so, O Maker.  
He never knew how much. 

Fili, my love, my sunlight.  
I would have died for your safety.  
Would Mahal that I had died for You.  
Would Mahal that You had lived in my stead. 

 

 

 

They had not found him. 

The days had stretched into weeks. Then months. Then a year. Then nearer to two. 

They had found nothing to suggest that he might yet be alive. Naught but a little boot by the river after two months of searching. A broken golden coronet many miles upstream. Worn once at a party and then never again. The finery stained by mud and the black of decay. The scent of death and loss forever held in the calfskin. 

When they had brought her the boot and coronet she had said nothing. She had taken them from their hands and into the bed with her. There against her pillow, she had pressed them to her face and had wept softly into their soiled surfaces. 

The finding of the boot and crown by the river had broken their spirit, but still they kept up the search. Perhaps the body would yet be found. Perhaps they could still give their prince a proper burial. Even just his bones. 

Only when the third winter had set in had they finally given him up. 

No funeral or little tomb of stone for her son, for he had been swept out to sea. 

Oh, Fili, my beloved. 

I loved you so. 

If only you had known. 

 

 

 

Three times in her long life, Dis had been bedridden. 

The first, in spilling the child from her near-dead body. The second, in keeping the child inside until his time had come. The third in knowing that she had failed them both in trying to be their mother. 

She had never been a balanced woman. Too extreme in her love for the one child, too neglectful of the other. In trying to have it all, she had lost everything. 

Why should we, the dwarrowdams, suffer to strive for perfection? 

 

 

 

O Maker, who made my suns, my little lights. Are you there?  
What, pray, happens to the child who is not buried in stone?  
I have damned him to dust. I have ground him into ashes. 

 

 

 

Fili had been born on a moonless night after six days hard and bloody labor. It had been bitterly cold. Unusually so for as far south as they had been that winter. The snow had fallen for hours. He had not wanted to leave the warmth of her body. 

She had nearly died to bring him out into the world. 

The child’s golden father clutching her hand. Brown eyes circled in shadow from staying at her side through the violence. 

I love you, my princess. I will stay with you until he is born. Stay with me in this world when he comes. Stay with me, Dis. Stay. 

She had managed to stay, but at great cost to both herself and the child. 

The death on the hands of the surgeon had poisoned her blood through the womb. They knew nothing of cleanliness or dwarrowdam bodies, those surgeon undertakers. They touched the dead before bringing life into the world. 

A gentleman’s hands were never unclean, they said. But a gentleman’s hands were neither clean nor gentle, for when they pulled the afterbirth out by the cord, she had begun to hemorrhage. 

Small wonder so many of their women died. Small wonder so many of the children of men grew up without a mother. 

With the loss of the poisoned blood, she had grown faint. But when she had heard the cry of her firstborn, all wrongs were forgiven. In her delirium, she had named him Fili. After his beloved father. 

An abomination, that, to name the living after the living. But she had been too far gone to care or even to notice. She had loved her devoted husband. She would love him unto the end. 

As she had drifted out, she had seen the beautiful golden hair upon the babe’s wet head. His little body cradled in his father’s arms. The quiet that ensued with their gentle love. 

And then Dis had known that Fili, the child, was his father born twice into the world. 

 

 

 

The second child had threatened to come many months before his time. 

Had he been born that September instead of the following June, he would have been half-formed. No child survived that, not even the children of the strong dwarrows and their women. And so Dis had fought to keep him inside her after they’d beaten her body. The child fighting against her to die within her womb. 

For four months she had remained in bed, in the care of the graceful folk. Bleeding into the sheets until he had finally calmed within her. 

Always tantrums from that one, even before his coming. 

She never blamed him for his anger. She too was so enraged, for men had murdered his father. 

Perhaps it was her fault that the baby had wanted to leave her. She, a damned dwarrowdam, a damning female. She, the damned princess of a long-damned line of kings. She, who had unwittingly damned her beloved by giving his name to her firstborn. 

And thus, because of Dis, the child’s father was dead. 

 

 

 

The family had been a happy one when they had been together. Her brother and his beloved worked the forges. Dis knew her architecture and could sell her knowledge to the big folk. Fili traded his paintings in the cities of men for food. Sometimes for silver enough to pay the wet nurses for their son. 

Queer folk, they were, and not well-liked. Never welcome in one place for long. It was a poor life as wandering vagabonds, but they’d had each other. And that was all they had needed. 

Everything changed on the road just east of the Misty Mountains. 

They had been travelling alone when Fili had met his end. Thorin and Dwalin had been away, in search of a permanent home. Left alone were Fili the father, Fili the son, the unborn and yet unnamed. 

And her. 

She a trained warrior, but with a babe inside. He a brilliant painter who had only learnt the brush. 

When they’d been ambushed, the thin and hungry bandits had robbed them for what little food they’d had. Woman’s milk in a waterskin and a basket of foraged fruit. Bread, a little dried venison. The fresh meat on the dwarrow’s bones. 

The caravan and Fili’s paintings were burned upon the cook fire. His wife and toddler boy were beaten and bound as the men had eaten. 

Then the mother and her little son were left alone to die. 

An act of mercy for the helpless, letting them live. A curse upon the woman and her babes to a fate far worse than death. 

After a day of writhing in her ropes, she had finally broken free of her bondage. She’d burned the picked-over bones of her husband to send him to the Halls of Waiting. Then she had taken up her silent child and had disappeared into the woods. Alone, bleeding. The baby roiling in her belly. 

Nearly dead herself when the fair, tall huntress had found her. 

Thank the kindness of Sisters, not the maker. Sisters, who cared little for the distinction between dwarrowdam and she-elf. If not for Tauriel, Dis and her sons would have died in the woods. 

 

 

 

Perhaps the second child had fought to be born early because he had longed to join his father in the afterlife. If he had died in the womb before living through the brutal world, he would never have to know the cruelty of life as a dwarf. 

Always a clever cheater, that one. She loved him nonetheless. 

But she was a selfish mother. She had denied him death before he had lived his life. And when he had finally been born, in June with a knot in his cord, he had squalled like none other, indignant at the act of being. 

At least this time, she had not faded from consciousness. The forest midwives, with their ancient magic and wisdom, knew how to bring life into the world without ending it. And so when the child was born, he was healthy. She was also whole. 

Unlike her firstborn, she could nurse this child. 

Not even the discomfort of that act could trouble her, for this was her son. This would be her last. 

As she had held her black-haired Kili to her skin, he’d quieted. He’d stared up at her from the breast with his father’s deep brown eyes. Forgiving her for taking Fili’s life. Forgiving her for daring to love the second son better than she loved the first. 

 

 

 

For two years after Fili had vanished, Dis had stayed in her room. Mostly in bed. Reading a little, not much. 

She had never loved him as much as she had wanted to. She had tried, dear Sisters, she had tried. 

She had tried so hard to love the one she’d not seen for months after the birth. When she had finally held her golden son, she could not nurse him. It was hard to love the child whom she could not fully mother. Who grew up in appearance and behavior to be so much like his namesake. 

The name, the name. 

Would that she had given him another name, for then her Filis might live. She might still have their artwork. She might still have their love. But she had cursed them with that name. They had died because of her. And there was nothing that she could do to ever raise the dead. 

Only Durin, the Father of their people could ever be reborn. Once again, all of their kind but one, an afterthought. 

 

 

 

O, my little sunlight.  
Eight years, you have been gone.  
Had I not been your Mother  
Might you have lived? 

My second sun, my wild one.  
Eight years since I saw your face.  
I cannot see your light  
From my windowless prison cell. 

I hear you have grown gentle.  
Your rays of burning sunlight clouded  
By the calming of the grey. 

Would that this were not our world, the grey.  
But we are dwarves, and of the grey stone we are made.  
We live out our days a grey and dying people.  
Clinging to the wonders of an age now lost to time. 

Mahal, in his cruelty made you both, my sons.  
Then I, in my failures, destroyed you. 

Would that you could forgive me.  
I love you both, though I know not how to show it.  
I will always love you  
Until the day I die. 

Then I will join the little one  
Where he rests in the land of the lost.  
Forever to show him the love  
I never gave in life. 

 

 

 

There came a time when Dis could no longer stay in bed. 

Here she would die if she did not get up to move. 

Her body had grown frail. A shadow of its former strength and beauty. So finally she left her room to regain some strength in her legs. But she lingered in the royal apartments, a ghost passing from one room to the next for many years to come. 

She searched her son’s room for a sign of who he once was. The little boy who she, in her worry, had stifled. She had taught him to fight when all he had ever wanted to do was to draw. 

But here, there was nothing. No art, nor beauty in this place. Just the gilded, empty tomb of Fili’s bedroom. 

I am so sorry, my son. 

 

 

 

She slept her days away in her boy’s bed. Fili’s boot and coronet cradled to her chest. Sleeping with his memory beside her on the pillow. A constant reminder of her sins. Atonement that would not come. 

She had refused all but the company of her brother. 

Sometimes late at night, Thorin would enter and he would curl up on the bed beside her. As he had done for years after Frerin had been slain. Together they would mourn the loss of their gentle kin. 

At times, Thorin despaired openly in her arms, but her tears were always silent. Here, from the damned grey halls of Ered Luin, their laments went unheard. But Thorin, ever stubborn, could not stop his weeping. 

 

 

 

I am sorry, Sister. I am sorry that we never found him. 

Thorin’s whisper was a curse upon the maker. Somehow Dis had already known that He was dead. She did not have it in her anymore to damn the benevolent creators for their cruelty. Hypocrites, them all. But it did no good to damn those who had long since died. 

 

 

 

Brother and Sister lay upon the bed of the boy they had raised together. Her head pressed to his chest. His heartbeat slow in her ear. 

No longer the tarnish upon the golden crown. No longer the scent of decay from the calfskin boot. Now only her scent lingered in its leather, for she had clutched the boot to her breast each night for twelve long years. 

Fili was gone. His ghost had moved on at last. 

But she, in her selfishness, could never let him go. 

I would return to the places of his life, she said. Relive his early childhood. The days I could not give him. 

You mean amongst the men and those elves. I forbid it. 

Why. 

Because I could lose you, too. 

And what of that which I have lost? My husband, my freedom, my life. My son. Have I not lost enough? 

What of Kili. He needs his mother. 

I have only ever harmed Kili with my love for him. 

I will not let you go. 

Am I to be your prisoner until the day I die? 

You have never been my prisoner. 

And yet you forbade me from leaving. For two years you and your beloved searched for my son while you kept me here. In these halls that are not our own. Please let me go. Let me go and be in the world. Let me have his memory. 

Thorin brushed his hand through her greying hair. He pressed a kiss to her brow. 

Whatever you choose to do, dear Sister, please be careful. Find somewhere safe. 

There is no safe place for our kind in this world. You above all should know that.


	9. Crows

Fili sat with his back to the old oak tree. His bare, calloused feet were drawn up beneath him, one tucked beneath the knee of the opposite leg. His sketch book was in his lap. He paused in his drawing to watch the birds in the canopy. They were cheerful and noisy as they danced and sang to their loved ones, and they fed their big-mouthed babies and preened themselves and their lovers. 

No cuckoo birds were to be found in this gentle part of the world. Here, there were only sparrows and finches and the little colony of warblers he had inadvertently introduced with his coming to The Shire. 

He liked the birds, for they were creatures of song and fascinating colors. Even the raucous crows in Old Mister Took’s fields were interesting in their own way, squawking and teasing the harmless scarecrow as if to tell him, _You don’t frighten us._

Fili smiled to himself and went back to his drawing. This one was of a green woodpecker, whose muse was making a racket in one of the nearby oaks. The swallows in the nest above the woodpecker chirped out their irritation at the bigger bird’s noisy drumming. Little did they know that they too had made their way into Fili’s drawing, and in that little black ink world, which Fili would color later, the imaginary birds were happy to listen to the sound of the other woodpecker instead of pestered by his presence. After all, it wasn’t the woodpecker’s fault that he was loud and annoying. That was just how woodpeckers were. They couldn’t be anything else. 

In some ways, Fili knew how the woodpecker must have felt. He too was different from his neighbors. He had known it for as long as he could remember, and sometimes, just sometimes, he was all right with being different. By now, his neighbors were all right with that, too, and they had been all right with his being different for the past nine wonderful years. 

There wasn’t much that Fili remembered about life before coming to The Shire some twelve years before. He remembered his name and that he loved to draw, but there was little more than that. He did not even know where he was from, nor how long he had been alive before he had found this place. But wherever he was from, and however old he was, he knew that he was not one of the hobbits. 

He was a dwarf, whatever that was. Mama Belladonna had told him so. 

“What’s a dwarf?” Fili had asked Mama at supper, nine years ago now. “I know I am one, you told me so, but what does that mean, being a dwarf?” 

He’d been sitting on one side of the table next to Bilbo, holding his big brother’s hand under the table as they had tucked into generous portions of rosemary seasoned pork chops, roasted apples, green beans with butter, and soft cheesy bread. The early winter snow had been falling outside, having come a month earlier than usual, but the dining room had been warmed by the fire in the hearth and the cheery conversation around the supper table. 

“That’s a good question,” Mama had said. She’d leaned her soft, hairless cheek upon the heel of her palm, and her long auburn curls had danced merrily with the gesture. “What makes a hobbit a hobbit and dwarf a dwarf?” 

“I suppose one makes the other what it is by not being that other thing.” Bungo, who was Bilbo’s papa, had been seated at the head of the table in a cloud of pipe smoke. He’d arched an eyebrow at Fili, looking grumpy, as he always was before he’d gotten through his evening meal. “A hobbit is a hobbit because he’s not a dwarf, and a dwarf is a dwarf because he’s not a hobbit. Though dwarvish children certainly seem to eat as much as a full-grown hobbit.” 

Fili had frowned at that. He’d poked with his fork at his untouched pork chop, unsure of what to say. 

“So…” Bilbo started, scratching his head. “We are what we are because we’re not something else?” 

“What if that other thing is better than the first?” Fili had blurted, fixing his eyes on Bungo. 

Bungo bristled and coughed out a big puff of smoke. “Who says that dwarves are better than hobbits? My goodness!” 

Fili shrank in his chair. That wasn’t what he’d meant. He’d meant exactly the opposite. He looked down at his plate again, this time in humiliation. 

“Come now, Bungo dear!” Mama had said. “Just eat your food, you’ll feel better after your second plate.” She’d laughed lightly at Bungo’s grumbling and she’d spooned an extra helping of apples onto her husband’s dish. As Bungo had replaced the pipe in his mouth with a big bite of cheesy bread, Mama had turned back to Fili, smiling. “Dwarves and hobbits are just different types of people, that’s all. Neither is better or worse than the other. They’re just better or worse at different things. You, being strong and sturdy, especially now that you’ve grown a few inches and put on some weight” – she beamed broadly – “are going to be so good at helping Bungo bring in the calves this coming spring. But Bilbo has tremendous skill with mathematics, so he’ll be helping me to plan for next year’s planting season, counting seeds, and all. Neither skillset is better than the other, but both are needed. Does that make sense?” 

“I guess so,” Fili had said. He’d looked self-consciously down at his hairless, calloused feet and had scratched at the yellow sideburns on his cheeks. Then he’d asked, rather tangentially in hindsight, “Are dwarves ugly?” 

“Oh, Fili!” Mama had dropped her fork and had reached across the table for Fili’s hand. She’d intertwined her fingers with those of her adopted son. “What makes you say such things?” 

“I just… don’t look like you. I’m not like you, not at all.” 

“That doesn’t make you ugly,” Mama had said. 

“If I’m not ugly,” Fili had said, “then why don’t the other hobbitses like me?” 

Mama had gone quiet. She’d exchanged a brief look with her husband, then with Bilbo. She’d pulled back and had folded her hands upon the table in front of her. 

“Well, you’re very strong,” Mama had said. “Sometimes you don’t know how to control that strength. And, well… given what happened last summer, I don’t think it’s surprising that the other hobbits and the children avoid you. I’m sorry to say, Fili, but… you worry them sometimes, that's all.” 

Fili had not had an answer for that because he knew it was true. 

He’d stabbed again at his pork chop, frowning. He had not touched the meat beyond poking at it with his utensils, preferring instead to eat the apples and the bread and the green beans. For whatever reason, he’d always had a hard time eating meat, but his dislike for it had only worsened since the incident. 

“I’m sorry I broke Longo’s arm,” Fili had said, quiet. He’d pushed his plate away. 

“We know why you hurt him,” Mama had said. “It wasn’t nice of him and Camellia to make fun of your drawings.” 

“But you must understand, Fili,” Bungo had said, finishing off his third pork chop, “that as a dwarf, you’re far stronger than even an adult hobbit, and you very seriously hurt Longo.” 

“I didn’t mean to.” 

Mama had dropped her eyes. She’d been staring at Fili’s unfinished supper and she’d left her eyes there as she’d spoken. 

“We know,” she’d said. “But sometimes a person can hurt another person wholly without meaning to.” 

“He shouldn’t have made fun of me,” Fili had said, scowling. “It’s not fair.” 

“Fili, look at me.” 

When Fili had obeyed, Mama was looking at him sternly. The smile had disappeared from her face. 

“Teasing, even from an adult, does not warrant snapping two bones in a forearm.” 

“If there is to be a punishment,” Bungo had said, “it should fit the crime. That’s fairness, Fili.” 

“But sometimes things don’t need to be punished,” Mama had interjected quickly. “Life just isn’t fair. It cannot be. Sometimes people are mean or they lie and we can never know why they act that way. One wrong does not right another, nor is punishment - especially severe punishment - the answer for all crimes. Sometimes it’s just better to forgive someone who’s been cruel to you, otherwise you carry around unhappiness and resentment for your whole life. That is not a pleasant feeling. You do not forgive the person who hurt you for their happiness. You do it for yourself. Does that make sense?” 

“But Mum!” Bilbo had thrown his handkerchief down on the table. “If you don’t teach them a lesson, how do you know that they won’t just be mean again? Longo and Camellia are just dreadful!” 

“Did it ever occur to you to just ask them to be nice to you?” Mama had asked. "I'm sure they'd change their ways if they knew." 

Bilbo had blinked. Fili had glanced from Bilbo to Mama and then to Bungo, and finally back to Bilbo, who was staring wordlessly at his mother. 

“Some people don’t listen,” Fili had said, quiet. "Especially grown-ups to children." 

Mama had looked over at him. For a tiny moment, she’d looked so sad, but then her sorrowful expression had faded behind one of her smiles. 

“We will always listen to you, Fili.” She’d placed one hand on Fili’s clenched fist and the other on Bilbo’s outstretched hand. “And Bilbo, you too, of course. You’re our boys, and Dad and I will always listen to what you have to say. I promise you that.” 

“You don’t listen to me much, Dear,” Bungo had grumbled from the head of the table. He’d resumed his pipe smoking and had leaned back in his chair. He looked surly as usual, but Fili could tell that after the big meal, he was sated and merry, even if he still sounded gruff. “But I suppose that’s because I never say much that’s worth saying, ha!” He’d leaned in toward Fili and Bilbo, he’d pointed a sausage-like finger at the children, and he’d said in a low growl, “You see, lads? Women are so much smarter than us fellows. Best to listen to your wife when you get married, otherwise she’ll give you quite a peck of trouble.” 

“Oh, Bungo… I would never!” Mama had blushed at her husband’s wink. Then when he’d touched her forearm and had traced a big finger over her knuckles, she’d responded by intercalating her fingers with those of her husband. She’d glanced briefly back to the children. “Are you two finished?” 

“Yes, Mum,” Bilbo had said. 

Fili had nodded, wordless. 

“All right,” Mama had said. “Can I ask you boys to please clear the table? I think Dad wants to tell me something that’s just for Mum’s ears.” 

All of a sudden, Bilbo sneezed violently, barely getting his handkerchief up in time. As he’d honked into the cloth, he’d blushed a deep shade of red all the way up to his ears. Bungo had suppressed a snicker and Mama’s eyes had twinkled mischievously. 

Fili had watched them all in wide-eyed curiosity. He’d had no idea what had just happened. 

He’d stayed rooted to his chair as the three hobbits had gotten up from the table and Mama and Bungo had headed for the dining room doorway. 

As Mama had passed Fili, she’d had stopped for just a moment and had pressed a kiss to Fili’s forehead. Then she’d gently touched Bilbo on the back as he’d started clearing the dishes, and her son had given her a funny look as if to say, _Don’t you dare kiss me, too!_

Mama had only chuckled at Bilbo’s expression. She’d patted her son on the shoulder blade and had said, “You boys are loved.” 

Then without another word, she and Bungo had disappeared down the hallway, hand in hand. 

Fili had watched them go in silence. 

“Do you think that’s right?” He’d asked Bilbo. “What she said?” 

Bilbo had shrugged. He’d scraped the leftover pork chop from Fili’s plate back onto the serving dish with the remaining six and then he’d cocked his head towards the kitchen. Fili had followed him with a stack of dishes in his arms and as they’d done the clean-up, Bilbo had said, “She’s usually right about those things. Can I tell you a secret?” 

Fili had nodded. 

“When I was little,” Bilbo had said, “I used to throw rocks at birds and squirrels.” 

“What?” Fili had gasped, mouth agape. “Why? That’s mean!” 

Bilbo had blushed deeply. “I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong,” he’d said. He’d started scrubbing furiously at a stain stuck on one of the plates. “I just… thought that they were animals and I thought it was fun. But then I threw rocks at the crows and now I can’t ever go into Mister Took’s fields, otherwise they chase me. They don’t fly away, like other birds do. Crows fight back. Then they tell the baby crows who threw rocks at them all those years ago. The crows don’t like me, none of them do, because I was mean to them.” 

“But crows can’t forgive you for throwing rocks,” Fili had said. 

“No,” Bilbo had agreed, “But I can forgive them for chasing me whenever I find myself over in Mister Took’s fields. It’s not their fault, what I did to them.” 

Then Bilbo had gone quiet. He’d screwed up his mouth in thought and he had looked down at his feet, hands still immersed in the dirty dishwater. 

“Do you want a hug?” Fili had asked. 

Bilbo had glanced up from the dishwater and had fixed his eyes upon Fili. Then he’d nodded. 

Fili had closed his big brother in his arms and Bilbo had returned the embrace. Even though Bilbo's hands were still wet and sudsy from the dishwater, it felt good, so good, to be hugged despite the fact that Fili hadn’t been the one who’d needed it. 

When he’d opened his eyes, Bilbo had been smiling back at him. 

“Thanks,” Bilbo had said. Renewed, he’d gone back to the dishes. 

Fili had returned to the dining room and he'd finished cleaning up the table. He’d brought the leftovers in to Bilbo and they’d found places for them in the pantry and the root cellar below, and then they’d gone together into the sitting room. There, Fili had taken up his drawings and a seat by the window, and Bilbo had curled up in Bungo’s big armchair and had delved into one of his many books, with the beagle dogs Rosie and Finch dozing at the foot of his chair. 

Fili had glanced outside at the falling snow, looking for inspiration from the winter as it had settled into this quiet, little part of the world. In the distance, away across the snow-covered hills, he could see the moonlight reflecting off of the snow, illuminating everything in a beautiful blue night light. 

Far off, he’d seen movement. Perhaps it had been a hobbit out in the snow, on his or her way home after a long day’s work. 

He’d opened up his drawing book to a clean page and had started to draw the distant figure as it had approached. As the figure had slinked along the path between the burrows, drawing closer to Bag End, Fili could start to make out its features. 

He’d suddenly stopped mid-drawing, staring at the person. 

If any person could be ugly, that person was. He’d been huge and staggering, dressed in black armor and carrying a big cleaver in one hand, and something that looked like blood oozed out of a massive gash across his chest and shoulder. 

“Bilbo?” Fili had said softly. When Bilbo had glanced up, Fili had pointed out the window. “What kind of person is that?” 

When Bilbo had joined him at the window, his eyes had gone wide. He’d mouthed in wordless horror as the person had stumbled into one of the neighbor’s gardens and had collapsed in the snow, going still. 

“That’s not a person,” Bilbo had gasped. “That’s an orc!” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longo Baggins and Camellia Sackville are parents to Otho Sackville-Baggins, who married Lobelia. Longo is Bilbo's uncle.


	10. Defender

At the sight of the orc, Bilbo had shot up from the window seat. He had sprinted down the hallway towards Mama and Bungo’s bedroom door, leaving Fili alone in the sitting room. 

Fili had watched him go, wondering what in the world could have frightened him so dreadfully. If big brother Bilbo had been afraid, maybe Fili should have been, too. He had looked back out the window at the fallen orc. The big, ugly person had remained still, face-down in the snow, as the little white flakes had gathered upon its body. It had then occurred to Fili that, given the gash on the orc’s chest and the stillness of the body that the orc might be dead. He had found it rather odd that Bilbo would be so terrified of a dead thing that could do him no harm. 

Unafraid, Fili had gotten to his feet. He had gone to the door and had pulled on the pair of wooly winter boots that Mama had made him, as well as a fur-lined, hooded cloak. He had grasped the door handle, but before he could open the door, he’d heard Mama’s startled cry and he’d spun just in time to see her running from the hallway. 

“Fili, no!” Mama had swiftly joined him at the door. She’d grabbed him gently by the shoulders and had dropped down to her knees, breathless, in front of him. “Don’t go out there, don’t you know what an orc is?” 

Fili had started to protest, but the look on Mama’s face had stopped him cold. He’d never seen Mama look so frightened. Her eyes had been wild with fear, and she’d swiftly ushered Fili away from the door and back towards the sitting room. 

“But it’s dead,” Fili had whispered. 

“You do not know that!” Mama had kept a firm grip on Fili’s shoulders, and she’d glanced up at Bungo as he’d hurried as quickly as he could into the sitting room. 

Bungo had lumbered up to the window and he’d peered outside. At firs he’d looked skeptical, but when he had given a low, repulsed shudder, Fili had known that Bungo had seen the orc. 

“Goodness gracious!” Bungo had cried. “Whatever is that _thing_ doing here, in Hobbiton!?” 

“Is it moving?” Mama’s face had gone ashen. 

“I don’t believe so,” Bungo had said. 

“I told you, it’s dead!” Fili had begun to squirm and had quickly broken free from Mama’s grasp. He’d left Mama and Bilbo back in the hallway and had bounded up to the window next to Bungo. “Something cut its body open. The wound was deep. A gutting wound. It died slowly.” 

Bungo had turned in horror towards Fili. “How do you know that, child?” 

“I don’t know,” Fili had said. He’d craned his neck to see out the window past Bungo at the dead orc. “I just know it.” 

When Bungo had given Mama a troubled look, she had joined them at the window and had grasped Fili by the shoulder. Fili could feel her anxiety through the tight grip of her fingers. 

“Come now,” Mama had said, trying to mask the concern in her voice. “There’s naught to be done about it.” 

Reluctantly, Fili had let Mama lead him away from the window. They had joined Bilbo once more in the hallway and had headed down towards Bilbo and Fili’s shared room. Once inside, Mama had quickly instructed the children to stay put, to cover the windows, and to keep silent. Then she had left them alone in the bedroom. 

“What’s an orc?” Fili has whispered once Mama had gone. 

“Shh!” Bilbo had hushed. 

Trembling, Bilbo had tiptoed to the window and had peeked outside. Then, reassured that there was nothing beyond the falling snow, he’d shut the curtains. He had pressed his back to the wall and had slid down until he was huddled on the floor, with his knees drawn to his chest. 

“Why are you so afraid?” Fili had asked. He’d gone to Bilbo and had wrapped him in his arms. Bilbo had gratefully returned the embrace and had given a soft, helpless sniffle. 

“Orcs are terrible,” Bilbo had murmured. “They are monsters. And there’s never just one. They attack in raiding parties and... do dreadful things to their victims.” 

“Have you ever seen one?” 

“No, but… I’ve read stories.” 

“Do they eat people?” 

Bilbo had given a brief, shuddering nod. 

The simple affirmation had touched something deep and primal inside of Fili. He had suddenly felt a more terrible and all-consuming sense of hatred for orcs than he had ever felt at any time before, or any time since. “Then they deserve to die.” 

Bilbo had given a low, wordless gasp. He had spluttered a bit, as if searching for words to express his shock at what Fili had said. 

Fili had made to say something more, to reassure Bilbo that it was going to be okay, but just then, he had heard the sound of the latch on the door, and he’d looked up to see Bungo returning to the bedroom. 

“The orc is in the Cotton’s garden,” Bungo had informed them. He’d tugged his pipe from his vest pocket with a trembling hand. “Based on the direction of the tracks, your Mother thinks it came from the East Farthing. She’s gone to alert her father in Tuckborough, and we shall join her first thing in the morning.” 

“Are we safe here?” Bilbo had asked, quietly. 

Bungo had been silent for a long while before answering. “I hope so. Safer to stay inside at night with orcs about. But if they come to the door…” He’d swallowed heavily. “Well, let us hope they don’t.” 

The three had remained in the little bedroom after that point, wide awake throughout the long night until dawn finally came. With the rising of the cold winter sun, they had quickly downed a meager breakfast and had packed a few necessities for the day’s journey. Then they had set out for Tuckborough, skirting the path that led past the Cotton’s garden so as to avoid the orc. 

It had taken several hours before they had reached Old Master Took’s house, and along the way, they’d met several other hobbits in varying states of concern. By now, word about the orc had spread, and rumors abounded of dangers in the East Farthing, ranging in extremes from a single wolf sighting to the burning of Whitfarrows to the ground. Through it all, Fili had listened and watched, and Bungo and Bilbo and the rest of their kind had grown more terrified with each passing whisper. 

By the time they reached Gerontius Took’s house, Fili had begun to piece together a meager concept of what had happened, but he still could not wrap his mind around the different rumors and different stories to know the truth. He'd wanted to know more, but when he’d tried to join Bungo and Mama in the meeting with the titled Shire families – the Tooks, the Brandybucks, the Bagginses, and a few others – he and Bilbo had been shooed away from the discussion, too young still for grown-up’s talk. The lads had wound up in the parlor, with more than two dozen Took grandchildren, several frightened Hobbiton residents, and Mama’s overwhelmed sister, Donnamira. 

“What are orcs doing in the Shire?” Fili had asked Donnamira. He’d wondered why she’d looked so exhausted and had sounded so frightened, but then he’d remembered that she lived in Frogmorton, in the East Farthing. 

“No one’s sure,” Donnamira had said. At her words, the babe in her arms had started to squirm, and tears had welled in Donnamira's eyes. “Just hush, Fili, and don’t ask me for answers!” 

“But I want to know,” Fili had protested. “Was there just one? Where’d it come from?” 

“I don’t know!” Donnamira had cried. The babe gave a loud cry and began to bawl, and Donnamira had quickly followed suit. 

“The East Farthing’s burnt!” One of Bilbo’s young cousins had cried. 

“We saw wolves,” another child had said. “So many of them!” 

“Oh, what shall we do?” Donnamira had wept. “All the food, the granaries! Whatever shall we do?” 

“What do you mean?” Fili had asked, in growing concern. 

“You mean the East Farthing granaries?” Bilbo had rushed to his aunt’s side and had gripped her hand fiercely. “They’re gone?” 

“Destroyed!” Donnamira had given a shuddering cry and she'd buried her face against Bilbo’s shoulder. 

The color had drained from the young hobbit’s face. He’d wrapped Donnamira in his arms. Then he’d turned back, and he’d fixed his eyes on Fili. The hopelessness in Bilbo’s expression seemed to say, _We will perish without help._

Without a word, Fili had turned and fled the parlor. Bilbo had hollered after him as he’d darted for the front door, but before anyone could stop him, he was outside, running away from the Took home and his extended hobbit family. He’d sprinted back the way they had come that morning. Without Bungo and Bilbo to slow the pace, Fili had made good time in getting back to Hobbiton. He’d reached Bag End by late afternoon, when the sun had been low in the western sky. In their fear, the hobbits had abandoned their homes, and now the entire neighborhood was deserted. 

The snow-covered body of the orc still lay face-down, covered in snow, in the Cotton’s garden. Fili had approached to get a closer look. The grey-black skin of the dead monster had frozen in the cold, and black blood had crystallized into a thick layer upon the ice. The cleaver had still rested limply in the dead orc’s fingers, and with a little effort, Fili had managed to pry the cold digits from the weapon’s grip. 

Fili had closed his own hands around the grip of the cleaver. He didn’t remember having ever held a weapon, or even having seen one, but somehow, he knew that the blade was poorly made, with a bad balance, and was probably only useful for bashing open skulls. Disgusted, he’d thrown the cleaver aside. Then he had run back to Bag End and into the kitchen, where he’d flung open the knife drawer. He'd grabbed two long chopping blades and tucked them into his belt. 

Then Fili had darted out of Bag End and down towards the East Road. He’d hardly known where exactly he was going, or what he would do when he got there. All he knew was that the hobbits were in danger, and they were defenseless against another attack. With Bilbo’s unspoken words ringing in Fili’s ears, he’d sprinted away towards the East Farthing, ready to meet the war that awaited him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's a Shire map, for reference.](http://www.oocities.org/garfield1288/shire_map.jpg)


End file.
